Both my mum and my Auntie Vera (who lived in the same flats as us) would have dressing tables full of bottles and potions – it was like Baron Frankenstein’s laboratory – without the electric wires.
Because of the generation gap of the two women, there was a vast difference to the tables’ contents.
My mother had everything she could collect to enable herself to be Balham’s answer to Claudia Cardinale: mascara; lipstick; Italian phrasebook.
My aunt needed to peroxide her hair. The lotion stood next to her cup full of senna pods and a bottle of syrup of figs; I was never quite sure exactly where she applied those. (Knowing what I know now, she clearly wasn’t leaving anything to chance) – she made sure she was regular and that her hair remained “blonde”.
My mother had a tub of vanishing cream. It didn’t work. One day, playing football in the lounge (despite there being a sign saying “NO BALL GAMES” – it hung between a couple of prints from Athena), I accidentally broke a vase. In blind panic I needed to disappear. I rubbed mum’s vanishing cream all over my face. I was eventually l found, but haven’t had a single wrinkle since.
Micky's Up blog 
A bit disappointing about the effectiveness of the vanishing cream. A case for referral to Advertising Standards. It reminds me of a Morecambe and Wise sketch on t’radio where there is a knock on the door and Ernie answers the door; he comes back and tells Eric that it is the Invisible Man at the door, to which Eric says “tell him I can’t see him”.
On a more medicinal theme regarding your Aunt Vera, did you ever say “‘allo Vera”?
Great read as always.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You are too kind. If I’d have known of that’s existence I’d have badgered my aunt with such a greeting. Although I rarely didn’t anything to upset her as I’d often hear her shouting at her husband “you should never have left the effing RAF” – so vitriolic, so I wasn’t going to take the piss 😂
LikeLike