COLD CREAM PLAY

So I’m in some nondescript discount warehouse chemist place, in some nondescript suburb on the north of Brisbane. It’s Thursday night about 8pm, and winter as we know it in Brisbane is nearly over.

The reason I knew winter was nearly over was because when my darling husband, who is prone to a spot of Thursday night shopping, suggested that after dinner we should “pop” out to get a “few things”, I changed out of my slippers and into some ballet flats. You see, usually the cold months would see me leave my slippers on; hang the concerned sympathies and random unsolicited offers of dementia medication.

The first place we popped to was Officeworks. I’d mentioned in passing that my wireless mouse was coming close to retirement age, and my ever vigilant husband had stored this information for future action. We selected a fabulous new wireless keyboard/mouse arrangement, and, me being a girl and all, hankered after some pink glittery notebook and matching gel pen set.

Utterly useless and highly inappropriate at any form of business meeting, unless I was going for an interview to host Romper Room. Which I wasn’t.

I managed to fob off a “five seconds, that’s all” visit to Bunnings. But Alan mentioned he had a script that he wanted to fill and asked if we could just “nip” into the chemist warehouse place that was “on the way home, won’t take us out of our way darling”.

So while Alan is at the prescriptions counter, I’m doing what all women the world over do when they are in a chemist shop. They look at weight loss supplements. Then they try on lipsticks on the back of their hands. Then they spray every perfume available for testing.

Having done all these, I aimlessly started wandering the aisles. These discount chemist places are like Bunnings for sick people. Row after row of vitamins, cosmetics, potions and lotions. All claiming to heal the soul, turn back the clock and make you scoff at those funeral plan advertisements they insist on showing on Kerri-Anne every morning.

And guess what I found. Jars of Pond’s Cold Cream. I may be having a Back To The Future moment, but call me McFly by any other name. I hadn’t seen this stuff for years.

Hello old friend, I’ve missed you.

My grandmother swore by this stuff. She’d have a dressing table lined with china jars of Pond’s Cold Cream. I would watch her tie her long hair back in a scarf, rub this gunk into her face, wipe it off with a tissue, then rub more in – and leave the bloody stuff on all night.

Of course, back then I was too young to realise that the more Pond’s Cold Cream she used on her face overnight, the less likely it was that grandpa would tap her on the shoulder. But when you’re seven, you don’t think like that.

I hadn’t seen Pond’s Cold Cream on the shelves for years. Decades, really. I’d flirted with it a bit as a teenager, but far too quickly was suckered into advertising muck and genuinely began to believe that only million dollar Estee Lauder products would save my youthful complexion.

If only I’d thought at the time that stopping smoking and drinking plenty of water would have the same effect.

Oh dear...

So by the time I was saddled with a child and a mortgage, and seeking refuge in simpler (ie cheaper) beauty products, my good friend Pond’s was MIA.

And had been for at least 20 years. Apart from that claim I read that our very own pop princess Kylie swore by it, it had been missing from my life.

Until last Thursday.

I had 30 jars of it in my hands but Alan, ever the wise and prudent one of this marriage, suggested that perhaps I limit my excitement to two jars and test them out to make sure I’m still happy with the quality of the product, before we buy shares in the Pond’s Institute.  

Well, I’m pleased to report that it is still the same. Smells the same, feels the same, works the same. I rubbed it all over my face. In seconds it took off mascara that previously needed a neutron bomb to do the same job. You should see the horror residue on the tissues when I wipe it off. Shudder. And to think that stuff was ON MY FACE!

Oh Pond’s welcome home.

Alan, can we ring the stockbroker tomorrow?