tea.

SLS (sodium lauryl sulphate or sodium laureth sulphate!) is a really cheap foaming agent that's used all over the place; Lush use it, The Body Shop use it, Holland and Barrett use it - all the big, ethical names as well as evvverybody else. If you check bubble baths or shampoos (anything foamy) it'll probably be second only to water in the ingredients.

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Sodium Laureth/yl Sulfate is also the same group of chemicals that are used to strip engines of grease - and it does the same to your skin and hair, so a whole load of dermatitis and dandruff is caused by it. It's derived from palm oil, which is wrecking the environment through habitat loss, human rights atrocities, and species extinction - and it poisons marine life when it's washed away.

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When makers of SLS petitioned for it to be used as a pesticide for organic farming, the application was denied due to its polluting properties and the environmental damage. It's not great 😅😅

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It's sort of terrifying when you realise how easy it would be to fall in love with them again. I read about a man who hadn't touche a cigarette in fifteen years until a two minute ride in an elevator with somebody who smelt of smoke. And afterwards, all of that time and energy and determination went up in flames with every click of his lighter.

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Addiction is a funny thing.

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Except, when I say funny - I mean sad. I mean complicated. I mean dangerous. I mean that you still make me laugh so easily, and you might be the only man that I have ever met who understands my mixture of vulnerability and iron will without me having to spell it out. I mean that the four walls of your godawful car are the elevator, and your smile - your sunshine smile, your sheer joy for life - is forbidden and tantalising. I mean that you are so stunning, but I cannot breathe.

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I can't get you out of my lungs.
My resolve is going up in smoke.

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He was one of those guys where you just know that it's going to be okay. I was a great one for getting myself into all kinds of shit and I never really worried. It would be fine. He was camera shy. Not so much of a talker, more of a listener. He didn't really "get" poetry or whatever - he liked things that said what they meant. He was a weird mixture of salt of the earth and silver spoon. He was the gentlest giant until he was riled. He was 6"2, he still seemed stocky. He was all dark stubble and storm-cloud eyes. His smile was pure sunlight and it was easy and frequent and God, I adored it. He was handsome but carelessly - he was this stunning human and he just didn't see it. He could dress impeccably when we went out and then come home and amble around in jeans and a shirt he'd had (and I'd been trying to burn) since he was seventeen. He was older than me, he frequently forgot that. He had a tattoo of three stars on his calf - my mother hated it, he kind of regretted it, I was the reason for the star right in the middle and kind of loved it. He knew all of the words to some of the weirdest rap songs, seriously. He wasn't bothered about being "The Man" - I knew engines far better than he did and he was more than happy to toss me the tools when we broke down and to go lean against the car and look pretty. He hated when we fought, but he would give as good as he got. He was always a step ahead of me - he was the one who asked me out when I had no clue, who told me he loved me. I was playing catch-up for a while. He had a thing for those movies with subtitles, which I always thought was hellishly pretentious until I watched some with him. He was as comfy going to the ballet with me as he was running around on a rugby pitch, covered in mud, sweat and blood. Or, not quite, but he knew I enjoyed it so he only ever moaned a little bit. He had a really dry sense of humour, but it was never at anybody's expense. He didn't make you guess about whether or not he cared - he'd tell you outright. His favourite colour was blue. He loved spicy food. He talked in his sleep sometimes. He tried to teach his dog to play rugby. He learnt to ride a bike when he was five. He was another English-immigrant in Wales. He put his bed under a skylight because he loved it when it rained. We went camping whenever we got the opportunity and the rule was that you had to bring back a something - be it a shell or a feather or an acorn. He brought bacback a something - be it a shell or a feather or an acorn. He brought back an entire wheel of cheese one time. He would talk to my Grandpa for hours and really didn't like my dad. He went to some of the most expensive schools and was happiest working behind a bar. He listened to his mother when she told him that he could only be successful in London. Now she's happy, and he's working in banks in London and not.

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He said my name differently.

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