Vestiges of an abandoned fantasy world from the 1960s lurk in the corners of my kitchen sink. It may be the 2010s and overcrowded conditions have made London deeply dirty and infested. Black mould gnawing at it everywhere. No less, a pristine charm of iridescent soap bubbles still sleeps within bottles of poisonous green liquid called Fairy. The tired genie wheezes, remains stuck on crumbling rubber gloves and foams inside of gargling siphons. Now, Fairy finally shows its true identity : toxic goo. The pitiless bite of bleach, channelled through the image of a muscle-man stud with a diamond in his teeth, returns the familiar smell of indoor swimming pools to my clammy shower room at home. Those old city pools, all hairy drains and germy shower walls, no longer keep up the squeaky clean and shiny, spotless turquoise tiled glory of the old futurism.
Environmental disasters, acid rain
and clogged sewers, the burnt faces of industrial janitors are now more readily associated with that chemical spectre, and the
happiness of cleanliness shrivels. Still, remains of the old fantasy castle silently line the tiled walls of every kitchen.
Once, for a month
or two, I took Cerazette, the anti-baby pill : instantly, not only did I
go up a cup size and develop an hourglass figure, but also, I felt like
a blow-up doll, nervous, neurotic and fragile, a bit Plath, and a bit
Monroe. It was like going back to the 'sixties, and then I too had this
dream that everything would be wonderful, if only things were bright and
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