I’ve just bought some shower gel. Now there’s an opening sentence to grab the attention.
It is, apparently, an amalgam of lemon and tea tree oil. I have absolutely no idea whether either of those ingredients is of any particular use in cleansing, and they had no influence on my purchase decision. That was reached because a) it does both body and hair – though in my book any shower gel does that – and b) it only cost a quid.
What definitely did not come into the equation, but did intrigue me, was the word ‘Heroic’ on the front.
Does use of this shower gel, I wondered, indicate that the user is in fact heroic? Would the other guys in the gym changing room notice my shower gel and mutter to each other “Watch yourself with him; bloke’s a hero!” or perhaps clap me on the back and profess long term respect for what I’ve done, which seems a bit over the top when in fact all I’ve done is buy shower gel? Then I noticed a smaller word “feel” above the Heroic, which clarified matters somewhat, but still didn’t fully explaining them.
Clearly this simple shower gel can somehow bestow heroism on the user, which is really quite impressive. But I’ve read the back of the plastic bottle, and it doesn’t give details. How long, for example, does it last?
Picture the situation: a minor earthquake near where I live has opened a chasm up by the old mill. Miss Simper, the helpless 60’s stereotype, has toppled over the edge and is hanging by her fingertips, just a fading scream away from a fate not worse than death but exactly equal to it.
“Oh save me sir!” she calls, spying my calf length leather boots, slim hips and chiseled jaw.
“You just hang on there, Miss Simper,” I call in my manly baritone. “I’ll just nip off and wash me hair!”