Friday, 6 March 2015

Of Shaving Foam & Methane

Flatcap is home from Lanzarote with a cautionary tale on confusing your cans, especially when you’re trying to freshen up the air in the bathroom.

Of Methane and Shaving Foam

Whenever we go away, we expect the odd cock-up, but Her Indoors excelled herself this time, and as usual, the chain of events leading up to it were anything but simple.
I’ve been unwell ever since the turn of the year. Rich food and gassy ale on the island of Lanzarote didn’t help matters, and I noticed that wherever we went, I was followed by a strong smell of methane.
I came to the conclusion that poor drainage and poor sewage treatment are symptomatic of a society which tries to sell you Sunday lunch on the strength of gravy made from Bisto.
It never once occurred to me that this appalling stench might be coming from me. It was the first thing that did occur to the missus. In fact she spent much of the week moaning about it, but my hearing aids were back in Manchester so I never heard one word of complaint.
And then she chanced to follow me into the bathroom where the smell was so bad that she needed breathing apparatus. She had no such gear, so she did the next best thing and picked up my can of deodorant to quell they smell.
Only she didn’t. She picked up my can of shaving foam instead. I don’t know how she did it. The two cans don’t even look the same. The shaving foam is blue, the deodorant black, and as if that weren’t enough, because we bought it in Lanzarote, the instructions on the deodorant were written in Spanish.
Regardless of that, in seconds she had splattered the beige floor and wall tiles with a layer of blue-green shaving gunge which was lethal underfoot but did nothing to alleviate the noxious odour. Worse still, we had to go in there and clean up the mess while the smell of shit clung to the air with all the determination of a Yorkshireman hanging onto a five pound note.
It was left to me to explain to the hotel how come their towels were soaked in shaving gel, and they took a dim view of my attempts to lighten the mood by telling them that at least the bathroom had a nil growth of beard. In future they will not accept bookings from Englishmen unless they can demonstrate they use an electric shaver.
As always I came off worst. Not only did I have to buy a fresh can of shaving foam, but I was also blamed for the entire fiasco.
“If you didn’t smell so bad, it wouldn’t have happened,” said Her Indoors.
It seems to me that that’s a bit like leaving a tap running and flooding your kitchen, then blaming the water company for the damage because they use wet water.

Would you prefer to listen to Flatcap delivering most of this post in his own, inimitable style? Click below.

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