The luxury of modern times

The wonders of human innovation were hammered home to me this week when it came to my attention that I was sharing my shower space with a bottle of shampoo that purported to smell like 'whipped silk'. It took me some time to comprehend the enormity of such a claim, but once it hit me, I was quite overcome. Oh, humanity! I thought. Once again you prove yourself to be a species of limitless talent! Somewhere in the world exists a genius who has not only invented a method for whipping silk, but has discovered how to bottle the delicious odour emitted by the said process. Do miracles never cease?

So affected was I by this discovery that on my next trip to Tesco I found myself lingering idly in the cosmetics aisle. Well! I don't mind admitting that I was bowled over by the extent of human ingenuity. The range of options with which to enliven one's bathroom experience is nothing short of astounding. Such an ample supply of heady infusions! Such a vast array of sensuous delights! There are lotions scented with passion flower and potions scented with mulberries. There are tantalising combinations of tiare flower and wild violets, of jojoba milk and liquid amber. Nivea have even produced a deodorant containing 'extract of pearl', which is a fine example of human endeavour if ever I heard of one. I cannot but commend a company that succeeds not only in extracting pearls from the depths of the ocean without a peep of criticism from Greenpeace, but in liquidising the said pearls, pumping them into cans and selling them for a mere £2.50.

I will even go so far as to say that my heart swells with pride when I contemplate the achievements of 21^st century science. For is it not a fine thing to be able to bottle 'morning paradise'? Or indeed, the 'African savannah'? And is it not a stroke of genius to produce a shaving cream made from 'radiant apricot'? I simply cannot think of anything more beautiful than a radiant apricot. Picture it! A ripe and sumptuous example of this fine fruit, ablaze with light as if touched by the hand of God Himself! And to think that I, in my ignorance, had previously assumed that the only kind of radiant apricot was one that had been dusted in nuclear fallout! Admittedly, I am unsure that radiant apricots smell noticeably different to ordinary ones – unless, of course, they give off a faint odour of burning sugar – but such concerns pale into insignificance when one contemplates the magical notion of canning light and using it to shave one's legs. It is equally as captivating as the idea of coating one's armpits in liquid pearls. Oh, but these are exciting times!

Over to you, reader. Go forth! Spend lavishly! Reap the benefits of this age of decadent luxury in which we are privileged to live! And now I fear I've no more energy for fawning, so I hope you'll excuse me as I retire to the bathful of simmered organza that awaits me upstairs.

Experiments with retro technology

At a certain point in the worryingly recent past, my fashion sense ceased its journey through a series of short-lived phases that had previously led me to consider the Sum 41 hoodie, the hot pink cords, the tie-dye maxi-skirt and other, similar horrors to be uncontested wardrobe staples and therefore suitable for wearing in public. After that point, my taste became more refined. I started to appreciate old things. I developed a penchant for rummaging in flea markets and antiques shops; I lusted after silk shirts and pearl earrings, pencil skirts and old-fashioned suitcases. Above all, I lusted after an old bike. I longed to sit atop a leather saddle, belongings tossed into a wicker basket protruding from charmingly curved handlebars, and I began to harbour a fantasy in which I pedalled down the uneven streets of an anonymous but picturesque town on a gleaming Pashley Princess, dressed in a decadent ensemble involving red lipstick, a high waistline and a patent snap-clasp handbag.

A naïve attempt to realise this fantasy ended in me making a whimsical Ebay purchase one day last year. Before I knew it, I was in possession of my very own 1960s 3-speed Triumph bicycle which, though burdened with a number of less-than-desirable retro features including absent-minded brakes and an endemic rust problem, melted my tender little heart. Oh, but she was beautiful – battered, but exquisite. I was enchanted. After a test run or five, I armed myself with some wire wool and a can of WD40 and set about restoring her to her former glory. I was forced to accept the impossibility of this task after several days and approximately thirty-seven old toothbrushes, but my enthusiasm was nonetheless not to be dampened, and I remained hopelessly in love.

Regular use, however, soon began to put our relationship under strain. My daily route took me through the tired council estates and uninspiring alleys of Englefield Green – a far cry from the shady boulevards and cobbled back streets I considered to be this bike's natural home. Out of context, she seemed pretentious and showy, a sad misfit among the BMX monstrosities and skinny racing bikes that always seemed to be overtaking us. Nor was the general ensemble quite so romantic as I had previously envisaged. No kid gloves ever graced my darling's handlebars; no silk scarves ever fluttered in her wake. The leather on the saddle was forlorn and peeling, and the role of wicker basket was filled, I am sad to say, by a practical but somewhat less fetching green rucksack.

Then there was the Sturmey Archer gear box, which offered but three choices: easy, medium and hard. Easy sent the pedals spinning so fast that my legs blurred out of all recognition. Medium made for a pleasant ride until the road sloped upwards by more than three degrees, and hard was like trying to pedal five bikes at once. In the end, I concluded that walking would be easier on both parties, and my poor dear bicycle was consigned – momentarily, I promised myself – to the garden shed.

But my experiments with retro technology were far from over. My next acquisition was a 30-year old film camera – nothing fancy, you understand, but still pretty enough to double most conveniently as a fashion accessory. Whenever I lifted it to my eye I was struck by its simple charm. How quaint it was to peer through a view finder! How delightful to wind on the film! Those poor fools with their 'retro camera' apps, I thought. I've got the real thing! I happened, at this time, to be on a year abroad in Paris, which seemed to me very appropriate (more so, certainly, than Englefield Green). I prowled street, park and quay à la Cartier-Bresson, the camera slung casually around my neck, in search of starry-eyed lovers, old pétanque players, elegant espresso-sippers and jovial waiters, and other, touching moments of cultural significance crying out to be immortalised in 35mm.

A few weeks later, after paying a princely sum to have the film developed, I awaited the finished pieces with baited breath. They would need naming, for sure; titles such as 'Lost in thought', 'Little boy laughing' and 'Hannah, caught unawares' were perhaps to be considered. But when they arrived, the pictures were not quite everything that I had hoped. In some, the subjects were blurred out of all recognition. In others, they were obscured by shadow, or by large patches of pink I took to be stray fingers. Some were even missing bits of their person. It was very disappointing, and brought a short-lived hobby to an abrupt end.

These days, the camera sits filmless and forgotten in a bottom drawer and the bike awaits its pending re-sale on Ebay. The story is not over, for a typewriter may be my next purchase, or perhaps, when I have earned my fortune and learned to drive, a Citroen 2CV. But in the meantime, I am learning to accept that soulless modernity is perhaps no bad thing after all.