The smell of Deep Heat reminds me of staying the night at my grandparent's house. Pappa would often put it on his knee, and in my mind the smell of it's taken on a mythical elderly proportion, but also one of cosiness, wood fires, shelves full of books and being able to sleep with the dog on the bed.

Today I bought some Deep Heat to try out on sore muscles. I'd never tried it before and wasn't quite ready for the shock of it all. Standing there in the bathroom, massaging it into the tense muscles in my shoulder, I was thinking, "This isn't too bad actually..."

It hit a few seconds later.

That agonising Deep Heat sensation that I'm pretty sure is akin to being beaten by members of the Khmer Rouge that makes you reel back uttering, "Oh holy mother of God!" in a surprisingly Irish accent that I'd say comes from no-where. Well, apart from that part of the family that is Irish and so far Mum's traced back to 1680 or something like that just through a superficial search. But it was probably more for comedic effect or something with the accent - an attempt to distract from the pain.

By the time the Deep Heat innitial sensation wears off, you've already promised to do more charity, live a life of celibacy and go to church three times every Sunday. Which is awkward, because I don't go to church even once on Sundays.

The smell of Deep Heat still makes me think of being at my grandparent's house, though. Oh, and hot water bottles that were always too hot and that strange pink woolly stuff that Nanna would use. And pawpaw ointment.

As well as steaming hot mugs of Milo, cheese on white bread toast for breakfasts, cauliflower mornay, Derek (my dog) hiding under the sofa with just his nose poked out, mountains of blankets, the imposing wardrobe in the spare room, Christmas lights and missing them both dreadfully.