Bum Bum Bum…
I’m on my roof in Soho, lurking behind a big tree, minding my own business until it’s time for Peeling Solution to come off when Crazy K calls begging for help. Again. She’s accidentally attached a bum selfie to her contacts’ list. Now everyone who gets a message from her is treated to a view of her recently waxed rear, she apologises just as ‘My Bum’ appears on my screen.
There are no compromises in backsides these days. They are either fatties or flatties. But in this pic Crazy K’s bum looks like two demented satsumas with scary sunburn. Funny I’ve never noticed the creepy rubbery texture before; ‘You’re looking at the wrong bum,’ she explains. ‘That’s the one I bought in Selfridges.’ She’d bought a blow-up bum when her boyfriend told her he likes a fatty but it turned out to be more of a farty and kept falling off so she gifted it to her mum.
Her real bum is called ‘MY BUM!!!’ Glad that’s cleared up. My own bum is starting to sting, a sign it’s time to remove the pink stuff. On my face I only use NIOD masks, but Peeling Solution is excellent for a bacial. All Crazy K wants me to do is go into the Apple store and ask how to stop MY BUM!!! from auto attaching to all her messages. ‘But they will think it’s my bum.’ ‘Exactly,’ she said. You can’t fault her logic. ‘But yours is a different colour.’
If I wanted to impersonate her bum I could put on some Glow Oil with a Photography Fluid Tan Opacity chaser. Except it won’t be called that for long because the Guru doesn’t like the T word. But I don’t want to go to Apple, for reasons best left unsaid, so I sent the Manservant who traded the humiliation of “pretending to be a mad girl” for a trip to space. “They are still talking about you in the Genius Bar,” he muttered, before collapsing onto my faux 1970s shagpile rug wearing a Spacemask and two Detox Foot Patches.
Who knows what planet he’s travelling to today but it makes him feel like he’s the boss for fifteen minutes. It’s not a competition but I pure love inspecting his Detox Foot Patches and discovering they are darker than mine! He’s full of toxic waste! My Big Seat is cleaner than his! Probs because of the pills I swallow to stop my poo smelling. Is it Healthy Flora or Florassit Mood or Clove Bud Complex that makes your shite smell like Chanel? Mr Shabir is bound to know but I’m too embarrassed to ask. If in doubt take them all.
In all the excitement I’d forgotten to remove the Peeling Solution so I dabbed my cheeks with full fat milk and a dollop of Sheald to calm down inflammation. A red bum is almost as bad as a red face. Not that I worry about my bum. It’s behind me. I’m not one of those insecure burds who employs a manservant to pretend my bum doesn’t look like a bag of saggy mice. And there’s always the option of sitting on it. But just in case I get into a car crash and end up on a gurney with my Shanghai silk knickers scissored off, I make sure my bum is free from the humiliation of cellulite. Ritual breaks up your life into small, controllable steps. First I cover my bum in Peeling Solution.
After that’s wiped off, I give it a blast with SDSM2 which reminds me of Russia because it has malachite in it. Dangerous bought me a malachite bracelet in St Petersburg in a shop hidden behind the Church of Blood. Then I have a hit of Glycolic Acid 7% Toning Solution. If it were my face, I wouldn’t use that. But it’s my bum so I’m living dangerously. Next I slather on Squalane because I use that on everything including very dry people I’m sitting next to on flights. Then it’s NEC which is like a bum-lift without surgical intervention. You could achieve a similar result holding it up with your hands but you would look silly and your hands have other work. That’s just my morning ritual.
At night I cover my bum with Advanced Retinoid 2% and a few drops of Rosehip Seed Oil. It’s so smooth I almost feel obligated to give the office opposite a flash. But I’m a badly brought up Catholic so I have the decency to hide behind a tree when I’m almost naked in public. After my bacial, I sat on my roof watching the bums go by on the street below while Crazy K obsesses about her own bum and the manservant makes rude comments about other peoples’. There was a teacher unkindly but accurately called Face Like A Bum back in the olden days when teachers were allowed to throw chalk at your eye and say, “Carole Morin you will grow up to be a Bond villain.” He got that wrong. I grew up to have a very smooth bum.
Chicken Man gives me a cheery wave and I wave back because I have my clothes on now and have come out from behind my tree. He doesn’t want me to spare some change; he wants to get his face into my Niod masks. “Don’t speak to him!” the manservant shouts, a snobby smile on his suspiciously pornstar lips. He’s been stealing my LIP again even though I gifted him his own bottle. “He smells like dead chicken.” We’d all be stinky without a rainforest shower and a pump of Aurelia probiotic cream body cleanser. The trick is to let the happiness in anyway.
Carole Morin is “Sylvia Plath with a sense of humour.” The Herald