I put soap on my birthday list. It turned out to be pretty expensive soap. £18. Be still my beating heart. Herself bought it for me. But it turned out that she had left it too late so she paid £42 for overnight shipping. I said to my friend, “WHO would pay £60 for a bar of soap?” “You,” she replied. A depressingly accurate insight, for who bankrolls this excess? Me. Was it reassuring to hear that she didn’t eat the week she ordered it? Not entirely.
Anyway they failed to deliver overnight due to “trouble in the Netherlands”. Herself said they made it sound like civil war had broken out. Happily, however, they not only refunded her the extortionate overnight shipping fee but also the cost of the soap itself. Eventually she was told that it had made landfall at the nearest UPS depot. I picked it up. Some immediate difficulties presented themselves. It was addressed not to me but Mr. Waffle. I had to video call him and they released it to me once he’d appeared onscreen holding a copy of his passport.
Part of the suspicion was undoubtedly caused by me saying, “It’ll be a small box, it’s soap.” Ladies and gentlemen, it was not a small box.
Opening it when I got home was like the dance of the seven veils.
What’s it like, you may wonder. Well, you may wonder as it remains unopened upstairs. I intend to save it for a very special occasion. What this might be is unclear, I’ll keep you posted.
