Holy Cow... Lip Balm!

At approximately 16:43 (Greenwich Mean Time) I made possibly the finest batch of lip balm the earth has ever seen. That's Right. My hands are shaking as I type this, my breath ragged and I've double and triple checked to confirm that, yes, this is the finest batch of lip balm the earth has ever seen.

Interpol have already contacted me suspecting the lip balm may contain Ambrosia, famed drink of the Gods (it doesn't of course, just the finest Olive oil, Coconut oil, Vitamin E oil, Beeswax and Essential oils) Though their interrogation was uncomfortably thorough, they eventually left somewhat satisfied that I hadn't scaled Mount Olympus to unlock the secrets of Zeus. Though I do have to notify them every time I leave the country which is just as well as I've already booked a flight to the city of chapped lips, Sisimut (somewhere in Greenland) where they will worship me as a deity for bringing these lip balm elixirs.

Just... Awesome!

Whilst all the above is clearly steeped in hyperbole, you'd better believe it was I who prevented last week's Rapture (what else could explain it?) and all after striking up a clandestine agreement with St Peter (God Bless him, he just loves Citrus based beauty products) for exclusivity in all distribution rights for my products in the afterlife. Sorry Harold Camping, maybe next time...

Basically, I've no idea why you're still reading this! Head on over here if you just love the fresh, zingy scent of Orange or here if Lemon is your poison. Purchase the finest tube opposable thumbs can manipulate!

Fondest regards,

Daniel

Customer Service #2

A word to the savvy seller, you should never arbitrarily clap your hands together in a fruitless attempt to stop an insect at your stall. The lady who was ogling our wares was completely taken aback, it took some considerable reassurance to convince her that she wasn't in any immediate danger.

Rest assured, she didn't make a purchase though seemed satisfied that I wasn't going to attack her (It was a really loud clap)

Every step an adventure for the travelling salesman...

On the topic of Soaps...

There are two mathematical certainties when one works in Manchester city centre:

1. People you don’t know will approach you and ask you for money
2. Every magazine will contain glossy photos of people I don’t know and offer to reveal their secrets to me, or show their entire form naked.

For the first point, I started to wonder about the last time a stranger engaged me in conversation without wanting money (there’s no evidence, given the clothes I wear, that I have literally one penny to spare) For the second point I initially feel a paucity of emotion given I don’t personally know these people; this rapidly transforms into mild irritation at the publisher’s presumption… That I might care about the bedroom antics of these people? Preposterous. This irritation then descends into mild despair and finally a beleaguered acceptance that clearly a large enough social demographic do care about the movements and activities of these complete strangers.

It’s a complex series of emotions for one man to experience whenever Hello magazine features the unholy trinity of Jordan, Peter Andre and Subject X (Subject X being the person Peter Andre of Jordan happen to be sleeping with at that exact minute)

That said, despite my dislike of celebrity interviews and gossip, just recently I’ve found people approaching me (or more accurately, the business) for interviews and articles; what makes us tick, our inspirations; people wanting to understand the life and times of the modern soap maker.

Basically, it’s difficult for a soap maker to spin an amusing tale; I’m not Iggy Pop, there’s only so many soap anecdotes people are willing to sit through before ostentatiously checking their watches and conspicuously mentioning “I’m very bored.”

I’m considering lying about the method of preparing oils; if saponfication takes place at the wrong temperature then the castor oil becomes sentient, a malevolent unusually focused kitchen oil that annexes the other ingredients forcibly… When this happens there’s no other choice but to call upon the Guild of Soap makers to sterilise the area. Obviously it’s still not as interesting as Iggy Pop’s average Friday night but that’s the best I can do. Oh and incidentally, there really is a Guild of Soap makers, I can happily say I’m a member.

Castor Oil, Improperly handled.

For the meanwhile, until I’ve ironed out all the little details in my super-intelligent castor oil fable, I suppose I’ll try to keep interviews light with soap trivia (“Did you know that Roman soap makers employed people called fallones to collect people’s urine to serve as key ingredient in soap? The ammonium carbonate reacted with… oh, bye”) and try to avoid trite and stock answers. Maybe I’ll just send Kate instead.

I'm Fired!

We’re all no doubt familiar with the basic concept of the international T.V hit the Apprentice. A group of bizarrely confident people in suits are tasked by Sir Alan Sugar (or for the American reader, Donald Trump) with selling items to the public, or to shops or to industry experts. It’s great Television, that’s not to say that I couldn’t imagine the majority of participants mugging members of public with a pool cue to garnish their bottom line whenever they’re off camera.

The sociopathic underlying nature is the central folly of most contestants; all brushed aluminium androids in Armani who see nothing inherently wrong with saying things like “Everything I touch turns to sold!” – “I am a brand!” – “I’m not here to make friends!” I mean come on guys… it’s nice to make a friend sometimes.

The reason I mention all this is that now I find myself in a similar situation to the candidates; I too am now approaching shops with the hopes of them stocking my fine products. I immediately dismissed the bullish, sales focused demeanour that I observed in my Apprentice contemporaries (one contestant demanding a storekeeper waive V.A.T on his purchases, dismissing the storekeeper’s protestations that it was “Tax evasion” and “illegal”)

I find that if you are insistent and rude then people are less likely to respond favourably to you, dismissing you as a “fool”. However, if you are polite, knowledgeable on your wares and willing to listen to shop-owners concerns and, where possible, make concessions, people are far more likely to engage with you and show an interest. When someone gives me negative feedback on my product I try to take it on-board and revise either the product or the packaging (within a degree of pragmatism) I am not the Alpha and Omega, I am but a humble soap maker and with each shop I approach I learn a thing or two (yesterday’s lesson: I need to help shops display the soap, to that end, if they order 15 bars or more then we’ll provide a free wicker basket that thematically suits the BarSoap range)

To that end, I have received orders from two shops and have received interest from two more which I will follow up in due course. Four shops seems to be plenty given that the majority of my soap production still takes place in my kitchen and I’m still can’t remember the difference between gross and net profit (someone should make a rhyme about it for businesses like the one children use to learn how many days are in the month…)

Anyone care to share any tips for the aspiring entrepreneur? I’m not too big to ask for help and advice… Good God I need help and advice!

Much obliged,

Dan

Soap: A slippery road ahead...

“Keep your feet still!” This is not an ambiguous phrase; it is a very clear imperative. If someone told you to keep your feet still, you would most likely have a very good idea as to what they were getting at. However, in pursuing my goal of becoming England’s premier soap-salesman I’ve had to finally learn to drive and, due to a highly specific form of mental degradation, I don’t seem to be able to grasp this concept of keeping my feet still.

Basically, my clutch control is appalling.

My clutch control is so bad some police came round to question it in a series of unsolved, grisly murders; my clutch control is so bad that a soiled nappy left out in the sun phoned to complain about the smell; my clutch control is so bad Chancellor George Osborne blamed it for stalling the economic recovery of the U.K... I just can’t keep my feet still.

Unfortunately, the mountain will not come to Mohammed so It’s looking more and more likely I’ll have to drive my soap to potential customers/distributors and, far from the liberating experience I’ve so often heard it described as, thus far I’ve only observed hassles, heartbreak, expense and a gamut of stupidity in other drivers that can only be described as fascinating. Hell, thy name is Manchester’s one way system.

Needs must though; fiscally, it’s a misnomer to have 2 people going to craft fairs for relatively slight returns (last weeks combined man-hours for 1 craft fair: 12, not including journey times) especially when one of those people is a highly qualified solicitor.

Lesson#4

Next Tuesday I’ll be having my 9^th hour of driving instruction, I can turn both left and right at roundabouts; I could be anywhere… maybe even a neighbourhood near you.

Drive safe.

Revenge of the taxonomy fascist!

Picture the scene... you'd really like a packet of Skittles, it's understandable enough; Skittles taste great, worth every dental problem they cause. So great is your desire for a packet of Skittles that you go to a shop and ask for them, after some deliberation the shopkeeper comes back with a packet that is 50% Skittles and 50% M&Ms and asks if this is O.K.

Clearly it is not O.K - it is only 50% O.K in that the packet contains 50% Skittles.

I'll now ask you to imagine that rather than Skittles, you have asked a supplier for 60 litres of Pomace Olive oil, you have specified the word Pomace and have been told to pick it up before 5pm that same day. You arrive there to be offered 60 litres of Pomace Olive oil that is blended with 50% sunflower. Now, Accuse me of taxonomy fascism if you will but surely Pomace olive that has been mixed with 50% Sunflower oil ceases to be Pomace olive oil - it becomes something else. Specifically, it is something entirely worthless to me.

The only reason this has garnered such a diatribe is that, basically, Kate and I had to drive across Manchester (a city whose road layout resembles a drunken toddlers' first attempt on a Spirograph, a superficially damaged spirograph at that) when I was feeling the acute affects of Red Stripe Lager from the previous evening. The drive to the supplier was fraught and basically fraught, coupled with the full spectrum of frumpy Manchester drivers, was the last thing I needed.

Punishment for an unnamed Manchester Supplier...

I suppose the lesson for all you crafters out there is that a reliable supplier is like your best friend who, unlike your actual best friend, won't ever want to borrow your money or C.Ds. Treasure them; a delay in supplies causes a delay in production which causes a delay in me earning money (I'll spare you a more detailed financial breakdown - I'm not great at capitalism)

Daniel...

Ten Seconds to Midnight...

Before I begin this blog entry I'd just like to direct the readers attention to the terrible events in Japan and, if you have any spare money, to please donate to a recognised charity for the disaster.

I began thinking about this entry at around 2:03pm on Friday the 11th. The mundane grind of my University job slips from my shoulder and shatters amongst the financial statements, letter-headed stationery and is lost amongst the interminable noise of the students (their youthful energy and their bizzarre tastes in music appal me)

I cycle home, invigorated as the Manchester sun beats down on me - arriving back at 2:23pm I begin work - what I see as my actual job - at BarSoap. I prepare an order for posting and deal with some Internet correspondences (mainly detailing my last blog, though with a couple of informal inquiries) and begin preparations for making a batch of soap (Goats Milk, Honey and Oatmeal) I have neither Goats Milk or Honey so I plan a trip to Tesco (a simple plan: Walk to Tesco) for the ingredients. Such are the minor obstacles of soapmaking.

On the way back I stop by the post office with the package. Now, my local post office is a fascinating place; the worker, far from being grateful for my handing over money for the service he provides, views me with intense distrust as though I have some insidious motive for sending a package. He will not speak to me, he will not smile, he will take my money but that is it. Once again I leave questioning myself, did I do something wrong there?

My post office manager.

I return home to make the soap, I won't bore you with the details. At some point later I return to the P.C and discover that my chemist (the man who checks over our ingredients and methods and deems them safe) has responded to my request to allow us to make Lip Balm (BarSoap is expanding its product range!); he wants money from me... they all want money from me. So, I am currently in negotiation as to what the bare minimum of money I can give him is (I also want money, I just love it so much)

At some point Kate returns home, I am obliged to stop working on the business and spend some time with her. I'm sure fellow craft makers can relate to occasionally having to speak to loved ones when there's work to be done, it's frustrating but it's a slippery path towards becoming a sociopath otherwise. After some perfunctory snuggling, we have a brief discussion about marketing and postal options (now postage to the U.S works at a loss in order to encourage trade, bah) it is then time for bed. BarSoap ends for 8-9 fleeting hours.

It is Saturday. We wake and deal with the correspondences of the morning - there are two sales to be packed and posted. Whilst negotiations are ongoing with the chemist I decide to waste no time in designing labels for the lip balms. Using MicroSoft Publisher is an emotionally neutral experience; the process is so dull and yet the program itself is so efficient... it gives the user a sort of glazed mental state - I sit there for 40 minutes adjusting this and modifying that, a vacant smile on my face throughout. I felt pleasure when I'd finished the designs though remember nothing else of the preceding 40 minutes.

I attempt to print the labels and stick them on the lip-balm tubes though our printer seems to have finally perished. It makes incomprehensible whirring sounds, complains of a lack of ink then a lack of paper and, when I finally coax a print out of it, gives a smudged, horrendous copy of the labels. The Devil moves in mysterious ways, though he is very real; I feel his hand in designing the Epson Dx8400 printer, the printer makes sinners of us all. I calmly imagine myself pounding the machine into atoms, my fists bloody and bruised though the infernal machine is dead. I discuss my feeling with Kate and we decide instead that I should order a replacement printer from Amazon.

It is Sunday now; there are no orders to prepare this morning - instead we've been in touch with a graphic designer to work on some sketches and ideas for both our online store and our promotional material, also a customer has a query about the oils we use and I am happy to oblige him (I really, really love talking about soap) In-between disparate episodes of Futurama and Family Guy I do a quick stock check and decided to make some Gin and Tonic soap (I've had Gin on the brain for 30 hours now) Making the soap I cut quite the figure, wearing a Dressing gown that can only be described as "stained", yellow rubber gloves and over-sized tinted Elvis shades to protect myself from chemical burns.

You might say I looked utterly insane, but that's the joy of working at home: I can listen to music I like, if I want to momentarily pause for thought and then watch the action scenes from Terminator 2, I can. That's what this is all about really; hopefully the business will take off and it'll be my inalienable right to watch Terminator 2 at any time during the day. So, that's fifty hours in the life of a SoapMaker - certainly it's more work and less money but, although it's now ten seconds to midnight and my 'official' University job is a mere nine hours away, I am not resentful.

Dan