Dear the Lush,

I would like to start off by apologising for having to send this letter; I’m not a fan of complaint letters in any way, shape or form, but unfortunately an incident involving one of your products has forced my hand. It just so happens it forced it into the beautiful penmanship you’re reading, rather than my usual format for complaints, namely standing on my balcony flicking the V’s at the world. Please allow me some exposition.

I was walking down my local high street, window-shopping, grateful to be out of my flat and not having to deal with anything. A lot has happened in my life recently, some of it confusing and weird, and I needed time to let my mind and body relax.

Just as I was passing ‘charity alley’, an entire road dedicated to mothball scented tweed jackets and plus size wedding dresses, I smelt something in the air. I paused.

I recognised the pungent scent wafting down the road, a smell so strong as to override the strange stale odour that charity shops have really nailed over the last few decades. I let the sickly, tart bouquet drag me down the road by the nostrils: it seemed I wasn’t alone. Hordes of young men and women were being led down the road just like myself.

I turned to one lass in her mid-twenties, wearing thick black glasses, an overly ornamental scarf and functional footwear. In turn she looked at me and a deep smile of understanding passed between us as we floated across the uneven pavement, enthralled by the sugary sweet scent.

We passed a corner together and immediately encountered a solid wall of middle-class flesh. I shook my head and the smelly spell was broken. “This seems eerily familiar somehow.” I whispered to myself as tutting and polite moaning mingled above our heads with the overpowering smell of ‘fresh, handmade cosmetics’. The girl turned to me again, an erogenous eyebrow slowly rising at my comment. However, before I could reply the doors to the brand new Lush store opened.

Like the last helicopter out of Saigon, the final lifeboat on the Titanic or an open space at the bar of a Wetherspoons, people flooded into the shop, yelping and whooping. I watched helplessly as the hipster chick squealed in surprise and disappeared as the sheer body mass carried us forwards. “Speccy!” I cried, but it was too late, I had lost her in the crowd.

Utilising my magnificent cat like reflexes and enviable centre of gravity I managed to free myself from the swarm, dipping and swirling around the bodies before taking cover near the Bath Bomb section. As people fought over bars of soap and facemasks I slumped down by the display case.

“Why? Why does this sort of thing keep happening to me? Why can’t everything just leave me alone? Whhhhhyyyyyy?” I whinged, my feet thumping against the ground petulantly, my hands flapping in despair. I was about to let loose another tirade when I looked up, the lass was standing there. She looked flustered, her scarf had come unknotted, a dusty footprint on her chest. Instead of her cool, calm, cocked eyebrow look she just stared at me with visible disgust.

“How old are you?” She demanded, ironically.
“25 and four fifths.” I said proudly as I got back to my feet.

She just kept staring at me, an incredulous expression clearly visible through her cracked glasses. Then I realised, I’m a supposed male, it’s my duty when courting to make the first move. I reached into my jacket pocket.

“Kinder Egg?”

She snorted, shook her head and strode off.

On the back of the picture; "I drawn you this masterpiece of the girl I met, in case you see her in another of your shops.'

On the back of the picture; “I’ve drawn you this masterpiece of the girl I met, in case you see her in another of your shops.’

I sighed, letting the confection roll across the floor. I felt stressed, more stressed than I had in weeks. Sad as well, I admitted to myself. I turned around and leant across the display stand, a single beautiful tear rolling down my statuesque cheek, like a stylised scene in a Zack Snyder movie. Then, strangely, I felt lightness overcome me: I felt full of energy and elated. I looked down at where my face water had landed; a small hole had been bored through one of your bombs, releasing a delectable smell as it wormed itself downwards.

I smiled to myself and hurriedly grabbed a handful of the spherical bath aids before rushing over to the cashier. Thankfully the fighting was dying down as customers started taking notice of the price tags. Once I had been served I carefully stepped over the unconscious bodies of your more asthmatic customers and made my way to the exit. I spotted the hipster chick trying on a lip balm and I stuck my tongue out at her, I didn’t need her anymore, not now I had some serious relaxing to do at home.

I burst through my front door, the Lush scent wafting in the air behind me like an aromatic comets tail. I thundered into the bathroom, turning the bath taps to full pelt and I stood there squirming and wiggling with anticipation. As the water neared the brim I opened up my Lush bag, rootling around for a fitting bomb.

I picked out a mellow yellow one, its label said ‘Fizzbanger’.

‘That’ll do.” I said and tossed it into the water.

I cooed as the little ball began whizzing around the bath, fizzing, popping and skittering about. I was just about to shrug myself out of my clothes when suddenly the bomb halted it’s mad dash around the water. A massive plume of green smoke started pouring out of it; the fizzing began to increase.

“Oh f-” Was all I managed to say as the bomb, well, went bang, flinging me out of the bathroom on a heat wave of sweet smoke. I landed in a puddle by the front door, groaning in pain. A smallish mushroom cloud of hints of apple and cinnamon was broiling over the sloshing, undulating water.

I groggily pulled myself into a sitting position, watching the devastation with a mixture of sadness and inevitability. I was about to cry out to the heavens again about the unfairness of it all when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. The bag of bombs were still in the bathroom, and the bathwater was flinging itself around like a cat on a ceiling fan. With mounting fear I watched water splashing, reaching across the floor.

The fizzing signature of the two bath bombs activating in the bag brought me out of my reverie. I crawled across the hallway carpet, slamming myself against the bathroom door just in time.

The hinges groaned in protest as the Fizzbangers’ went off, clouds of apple pie erupting through the door cracks. I don’t know how long I lay there, panting and sobbing, it may have been hours. Eventually I wiped my eyes and gingerly cracked the bathroom door open. My beautifully white bathroom was now stained a radioactive green colour, sooty smoke marks staining the ceiling.

As funky as the new colour scheme looks, it's gonna be a pig to explain this to my landlord

As funky as the new colour scheme looks, it’s gonna be a pig to explain this to my landlord

Something must have shifted by an air current when I opened the bathroom door, as I felt something gently land in my hair. I frowned and plucked the thing from my mane. I burst into tears at the sight of it. Please see attached photo, I think you’ll understand why.

This is just cruel

This is just cruel

I’m not after any recompense, just an explanation for why you made your Bath Bombs so literal.

Please respond in due course.

Much Love,
Neville Haley


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