2nd batch of soap and Berlin Phil's blue arm

Nicole has sharp elbows, so when she woke to the sound of someone pounding on the door, my ribs paid the price, but she looked out the window and saw it was Phil, and though she wasn't happy, she wasn't surprised either. He'd done this before.

It was an unusually sunny British morning, 6am perhaps, and there stood Phil in his long-sleeved hoodie with "Berlin" written on it in big block letters, "Tea? he asked, and walked in quickly without taking his hands from his pockets, which was strange, as he's always quick with a pat on the shoulder or a handshake. Something was wrong.

I made him a cup, and when he reached for it I saw that his hand was blue.

"How'd that soap turn out?" he blurted between sips. "I could really use some, Guv." He always called me Guv, and when he took off his sweatshirt I saw that his arm was a deep royal blue from his fingertips to the Love tattoo on his scrawny bicep. "Is it ready? You said it would be ready."

"Six weeks," I told him. "It will be done in June."

He moaned and rubbed his blue hand hard on his forehead.

"I could make a Hot Process soap. That would be ready in the morning. I could even give you some crock pot scraps today to use until tomorrow."

"Is that right? One day?" He was jabbering now and getting agitated. "What's the difference? It'll work, right? Can you do it?"

I told him of heat and saponification and crockpots. "But I've never done it. It doesn't sound difficult and I've got some kit lying around, so I'll give it a go." We finished our tea and he put his sweatshirt back on, pulling his sleeve down to cover his bizarre and still-unexplained blue arm. "Go home, Phil, get some rest, and come back around later."

He left and I got right to work. Oils, check. Gear, check. Mould? One of Nicole's boxes would work. She'd decorated one her folding Kraft boxes from the office. It took her an hour to do, and had ribbons and flowers and other girly stuff on it. It's a strong box, with clean straight sides and it would make a good mould. I could even put the block back inside when it was done. It would fit nicely.





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/me eagerly awaits part two of this story. Whatever happened to Phil's arm ? Tatoo, blue ink.. could it be spilled India Ink? 0.o

??? Waiting

The soap had settled into trace when Berlin Phil returned, this time in a sleeveless t-shirt that made his shoulders look whiter than usual, especially given the state of his blue arm. "Well?" he asked, "I'm desperate here, Guv." I sipped my bourbon and said nothing as Nicole wandered down to the kitchen in her dressing gown, ignoring the crockpot and staring at Phil. She hid her shock, bless her, as our shaken neighbour scratched and rubbed at the blue. It wasn't coming off.

"Rough night?" she asked. "I've seen rough ones before, but this one's new." I simply stirred and sipped. The soap had curled up on the sides some time ago and was beginning to gel.

"It was the bloody Edinburgh to Kings Cross train, I'm telling' ya. The loo is too small."

The soap was going well, and almost ready for the mould. Nicole looked at the counter and saw her box, lined with oven paper sitting on the block next to the the bourbon and the crockpot. She looked crossways at me so I nodded back at Phil, who had begun jabbering again and was coming unscrewed.

"The loo, I'll say! Too tiny for ordinary folks! Slippery too! You ever been in one, Guv? When it hits a tunnel at high speed and the lights flicker?" I had, but didn't mention it. The soap needed attention. It was ready to mould up, and Phil was truly in a right state of panic, rubbing his blue arm and pacing the kitchen in large heavy steps. "Too bleedin' slippery! I've got a mind to make some calls!"

I grabbed a wooden spoon and began scooping the soap into the box. Now Nicole was interested. "Will it fill the box?"

"It should hold a couple of kilos, but I'm not making that much." I told her. "It'll fit right nicely into one of your decorated ones, all perfect you know. Perhaps I'll add some clay on the next go. Your Mum might like it. Random gifts are never bad."

"Too slippery!!" Phil was agitated. "Will that soap work on my arm? Mi' Julie will kill me if she sees this… stick a fork right in my head! She's done it before. Look!" He rubbed his forehead with his big blue paw. "See the holes? See 'em?" Nicole leaned over for a look. I did too. I didn't see anything.

I began to glop the soap into my mould. Yes, the box will work well.

"What's in that stuff, anyhow?" he asked.

"Mostly bacon fat and drain cleaner. It's how we conquered Wales in the 13th century."

"Are you going to tell us what happened?" Nicole asked him, as I tamped the box down on the counter to release the bubbles and settle the mix.

"Slippery," he croaked, and began his tale.

You are a hoot, Mark! Please continue your tale when you can ... I look forward to the next installment.

Don't leave me hanging!

Hilarious! And perfect box for the job, with a built in lid.

Berlin Phil closed his one good eye and leaned back in his chair so far that I thought he'd tip over and spill his tea all over the wood floor and that I'd be tasked with wiping it all up. That's how we do things in our house; messes are assumed to be mine. "You know that spot, that angle, that point when you lean back too far in your chair," he said, waving his arms in big frantic circles, like paddling away from a shark quickly. "I feel like that all the time."

Nicole was puzzled. "Pardon?"

"It's about balance," he said. "I balance a chair; I balance my life. I have good balance." Which of course was complete fantasy. Phil's life was anything but balanced. He hadn't worked in years, but for some odd jobs and the occasional hi-tech client. His life revolved around booze, the Manchester City Football Club ("I love those tossers") and poultry, and when he worked, as he had apparently done this week, it was to maintain RFID tags on a Scottish poultry farm. ("Someone has to keep track of those gobbling little freaks.")

"I was finishing a job for that farm in Ayreshire, but the weather turned and the new tagging collars were faulty, so when it rained the chickens were shocked quite nastily, which was pretty much all the time, so there were angry chickens squawking and scrambling like Jimmy Saville at recess. And the feathers! The FEATHERS! They were everywhere! The farm shut me down for the week while they rang the collar company."

"Phil, your arm is blue. What happened to your arm?" Nicole was in no mood for one of his stories. I sipped my bourbon and began dropping my soap mould on the counter to scare the bubbles out and settle things down. Bam. Bam. Bam.

"Well, you know my dodgy eye?" We did. It was glass and a bit bizarre. On Boxing Day last year he popped it out at dinner in a drunken stupor. Julie's daughter is still in therapy over that one. "So I'm on the train and it's itching, and the storm was bad and I had dipped into the whisky a bit more than I usually do, and I found myself in the loo, with my eye in my hand, wiping it down and picking off little bits of feather and Scottish dirt. The train was jostling and it was tight in there, too tight, like the Egg Room at the farm."

The soap had settled and since this was only the second batch I'd ever made, I didn't care much for how the surface looked. Wavy was good enough for me.

"Well, the storm was bad and we hit a tunnel and the light flashed and the train shook and the door popped open and hit me hard, and my eye shot into the chemical loo."

Nicole was visibly disturbed, and quickly lit a cigarette, so I poured her a bourbon ("how can you drink this awful swill?") and closed the lid on my soap box.

"What was I going to do?," he continued, still leaning back in his chair. "Leave it in there?"

I picked another of Nicole's decorated boxes in the same size, one she had decorated with bits of ribbon and textured paper. I would wait until the next morning before cutting the soap and giving Phil a bar. But Phil was having no part of this plan. His arm was blue and he needed the soap now. "Do you know how long I had to root around in that mess before I found my eye? Twenty minutes at least! And now I have to WAIT FOR SOAP? That's not good, Guv; that's not good at all. Mi'Julie's gonna kill me. Her sister's getting married to The Missing Link tomorrow and I've got my white suit all ready to wear." It was true, her brother-in-law-to-be had hairy knuckles and dragged them on the floor at every chance. I would give him some crockpot scraps and he would try it on his arm.

Nicole had wandered over to the counter and was looking at her box and the soap. "Honey, that will fit nicely! You should try a coloured soap next, and I could decorate the box to match."

"Gimme a break here, darlin'. This is only my second batch, as you know, and coloured soap is advanced soaping Kung Fu."

Phil was still agitated and had taken the scraps. "Mi' Julie's gonna kill me," he muttered, and began walking to the door.

"Honey, that's nice soap. I love you."

Yeah. That is nice soap.

A very funny good read, Mark! Many thanks....

Great story telling! What a great talent!

May i officially request, here in writing, a signed copy of your first book?

bodhi said:

May i officially request, here in writing, a signed copy of your first book?

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aww shucks.

I'm with bodhi. Thanks for sending me over here to read this. I love a good soap tale!

Ok it's time, did Julie kill him?

Tap tap tap tap tap....

Funny and well written. I didn't even see this when it was first posted.

Oh Damn, Hazel, when I saw this pop up I was all excited thinking this was the next chapter. Humph... lol

Mark, if you're as talented at soap making as you are in story telling ...... And I'll be second in line to buy that 1st book! Great story.


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A great read with my morning coffee! What a beautiful box and soap to go with! Thanks.

bodhi said:

Oh Damn, Hazel, when I saw this pop up I was all excited thinking this was the next chapter. Humph... lol

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Sorry! My bad!

Is Berlin Phil’s arm still blue?
Did Julie’s sister actually marry the Missing Link?
Did Mark go on to make colored soap?
If so, was Nicole able to coordinate colors to match the soap?

I guess you'll just have to start nagging Mark about continuing the saga or dare I call it - the soap opera.