Lathering up in the Jacuzzi the 'right' way

Once upon a time I worked with a reporter/columnist who came-up with a prize-winning (in my esteem) guide to marriage. I found the column he wrote on the subject to be both very funny but also, in its own way, sensible. I’ll take the liberty of telling you how it worked.

He called it the Tabasco Test. It’s very simple. He decided that the average small bottle of Tabasco sauce lasted in their household about 12 years. That to me seemed like a long-duration, and suggested that maybe they just needed a bit more ‘spice’ in their relationship and then they wouldn’t need the test. But, that’s not important here. Back to the test. If, in their household, the bottle lasted 12 years, he felt that at some point, part way through year 11, a couple should sit down and note that the Tabasco was nearly gone. It might be time to appraise the relationship and to decide whether or not they would make it all the way through the next purchase, and therefore should they take the plunge and renew. If they did renew, and then the marriage broke down, they would be forced to deal with all sorts of complications, not the least of which, who would get custody of the Tabasco.

Anyway, the Tabasco consideration came to mind when I was having a Jacuzzi this morning. Next to the tub, I always have a bar of Pears' soap – you know, that wonderful amber glycerine English product that actually smells like soap rather than perfume. This is not a plug for the Pears' company, I might add. When we bought the house with the Jacuzzi tub (which was a major selling point since it offered the potential for even more than just cleanliness and relaxation, but I won’t go there) I felt it should be honoured by more than just regular old soap. It needed Pear’s, with its patina of class – you know, sort a Princess Diana, Ascot tailgate picnic with champagne and caviar, and hobnobbing at Annabel’s sort of association – and also nostalgia.

You see, my maternal grandmother was more English than the Queen, and she always had Pears'. The fragrance of Pears' takes me back to lying in her big old tub (with the clawed feet) decades ago and lathering up with Pears'. They say that fragrances are the most evocative sensory triggers for us, and I fully believe it. A smell can transport you right back to the first time you experienced it.

The point of this blog is to suggest that while we smugly disparage commercial products and think we should detach ourselves from them and their hold on us (and we probably should at least be sensible about the bullshit advertisers run past us), we must be aware that some products are more than their names. They are associations and it is our associations that keep us connected with both ourselves and others.

In my father's day, guys were 'Ford men' or 'Chevy men', and they were unstinting and unwavering in their loyalty. God help anybody who tried to take that away from them back in the days when every kid could not only identify the brand of all vehicles on the street, but he could tell you what year they rolled down the Detroit pike for the first time. Today, with our cars emanating from Osaka, Beijing and Seoul, and Rolls Royces and Bentley's and sexy li'l Minis coming from Germany, you can understand the despair of a certain generation.

Our products are more than just a label, they are an association and a state-of-mind, and maybe we're the poorer if we entirely ignore that impulse.

Hell, I still miss Studebakers.