If, when you squirt out green and squishy in my palm, you destroy all the bacteria in my entire body and then replace it with aloe vera and olive oil, can I really expect to be the same person I was before I bathed in the green waters of your fountain?
When you and I have danced together I sniff my hands and discover that my hands smell like the milk of certain vegetables. I must admit that I did not know that vegetables had milk.
Soap, every day at least once I must wipe a congealed glob of green from your spout like you were a three year old child with a constant supply of snot. Both the child’s nose and your childish nose amaze me. Where does it all come from?
The child has a mother with an equally steady supply of tissues concealed in her bosom or purse, but, Soap, when I wipe your spout I use my bare hands. That’s love, that is.
But Soap, I confess, it’s coming to an end. Soon I will have used all I can of you and I will move on. I’m avaricious that way.
I’m not sure I should tell you this. I think, as the classless Americans say, that it lacks class. But I need you to know that I’m moving on to jojoba and honey, a pus-coloured near-relation of yours. I just don’t think green is an appropriate colour for soap.
In the meantime, I remain,