“She thinks her sh*t don’t stink“. I heard that line of dialogue in a movie once, and for some reason, it has been stuck in my head ever since. Which, bearing in mind I can no longer remember what the movie was, what I had for breakfast this morning, and occasionally, how old I actually am, is going some. Now, it turns out, I can’t use
this particularly handy product Aesop Post-Poo Drops without hearing that line of dialogue (in an Italian-American accent to boot) once again in my head. I am a weird.
Now, I don’t know about you, but, unlike some recent TV adverts would have you believe, I don’t poo adorable little chocolate doughnuts (and if people did poo adorable little chocolate doughnuts, then VIPoo wouldn’t even exist, frankly, lets face it), but I do actually have a particularly thorny poo problem in that I can’t smell poo. At all. Doesn’t sound like much of a problem really, does it? It is though. Honestly.
Let me explain. Actually, it turns out that I can smell poo, but poo doesn’t smell like poo used to do. Being a recovering anosmic with a now-minor, but lingering, smell-disability does occasionally have its benefits! Poo, to me, smells fine. A little bready, somewhat yeasty – possibly even a bit toasty – but not really, erm … pooey. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was, you know, pleasant, but it’s … tolerable. Yes, tolerable. Your mileage will vary. Hugely. I know. And I’m sorry for even mentioning it, but Get Lippie has never really been a particularly shrinking violet. And everybody poos.
Now, ordinarily, my poo-blindness would be fine:
If I lived alone.
Or never used a toilet other than the one I have at home.
But, having somewhat unexpectedly found myself married in my forties, and, not being actually a bit unsane on the subject of using toilets outside of my own house, I do, occasionally, have to think of the well-being of the other people who might have to use the bathroom after I have had to … go.[sidenote: being an anosmic means your life is full of these little worries. Never being able to tell if your socks smell, if you’ve trodden in something ripe, if you need extra deodorant, if you have bad breath, how effusively to apologise (or even if you need to bother) when your botty gives a little unexpected toot at an inopportune moment, that kind of thing. Anosmia: Sad.]
Hence Aesop Post-Poo Drops. A mixture of mandarin oil, ylang ylang and tangerine oil, they are designed to be used after “vigorous activity” in the bathroom, to make the atmosphere just that little more tolerable for “post-vigour” visitors. You simply drip a couple of drops into the bowl once you are done, and the room is sweet-smelling, citrus-fresh and lovely. Apparently.
Whilst I can’t smell poo, I can smell these, and they are (and this is genuinely the only word for it, and I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to go there) delicious. Mouthwateringly photo-realistic citrus fruits, without that nasty whiff of synthetic air-freshener. What I can’t do is tell you how much, or even how effective they are at masking your … vigour. Sorry!
For one thing, my nose does not work properly, so I can’t smell “vigorous activity” much anyway, and for another, whenever I ask MrLippie (in his official role as my Auxiliary Nose) about how the Aesop Post-Poo Drops are working for him, he just looks at me funny, and leaves the room.
But hell, I like ’em regardless. A sweet-smelling bathroom is a fine, fine thing, even if you do have to number two in there occasionally. And even if your poo smells precisely like poo to you, then you might like them too, because sometimes, a girl’s gotta poo when a girl’s gotta poo.
They’re (okay, mine were) £20 from SpaceNK – but I’ve been using this bottle a month now, and I suspect it’ll last forever.
No fine print today because I bought these. Mind, if you knew how much I spent on industrial-strength deodorant and having to import cinnamon-flavour toothpaste because Unilever, P&G et al don’t believe that dental products should come in any other flavour than mint (which makes me heave these days), they’re a bargain. So shush.