Feedback is that odd corner of New Scientist where we look sideways. It’s a place for the strange, the weird, the tech news you’d rather ignore but can’t stop thinking about. Send your gems to [email protected]. We’re always listening. Or reading, anyway.
Down under
Catherine de Lange is our editor. Big shots, right? Well, she sent this one to us. Specifically, a press release for a company named Underdays. No snark in the email. Nothing snappy. That silence was loud. Usually, when a colleague doesn’t comment, they are stunned. Or terrified. This time, it was both.
Underdays sells underwear with bacteria. Probiotics. They claim it feeds your skin microbiome. The marketing pitch was sharp too: “The most intimate layer just got a IQ”. Do bacteria have intelligence? Maybe. We decided not to chase that rabbit hole. It seemed like a distraction from the real issue.
The idea is simple enough. Prebiotics woven into the fabric transfer to your skin all day long. It supposedly strengthens your skin barrier. It gives you a healthier appearance. All without effort.
Imagine that. A time-saver for putting clothes on.
“No creams. No serums,” the press release gushes. “Just get dressed.”
If we are honest, the morning routine is already a battlefield. Why add more steps? Wait, why remove them? It feels like we are trying to optimize self-care into oblivion. Again.
Here is the flaw in the plan. Washing.
We know underwear needs washing. Daily, mostly. But bacteria are fragile. Hot water kills things. Soap is chemical warfare for microbes. What happens to those good bugs in the machine?
We went digging. Private browser tabs and all. The FAQ page was surprisingly specific. You cannot actually replace your skincare routine with this underwear. You have to use it “alongside your existing products.” The time-saving promise vanishes. It’s a mirage. Curses, indeed.
What about the washing instructions? They want cool water. Maximum 40 degrees Celsius. Air-dry it flat in the shade. Do not tumble dry. Do not iron. Wash at 30C on gentle if you can manage it.
They claim the probiotics last for up to 40 washes.
Underdays didn’t respond when we asked for the science. Forty washes is a wide net to cast. Does that mean thirty? Thirty-nine? Who knows.
The most intimate layer just got an IQ.
It sounds like marketing fluff until you actually wear it. Then you wonder if you are becoming a walking petri dish. In a good way? Supposedly.
Places to go
Tourism gets weirder every year. We saw a foraminifera sculpture park earlier. Then a moss garden. Now, shells. And sugar beets.
Carolyn Smith writes from North Norfolk. She found two shell museums. Just two. Within shouting distance of each other, almost. She thinks there is no rivalry between them. Probably because tourists don’t go to shell museums for the drama.
She recommends the Glandford one. The Shell Museum, specifically. They claim to have the finest seashell collection in Britain. Sounds dry unless you love mollusks.
The other one is the Peter Coke Shell Gallery. It is in Sheringham. Almost 200 sculptures made of shells. It competes for your attention but likely loses to the seaside ice cream.
Half a world away, Catrin Kerlin remembers her town, Maffra in Australia. They have a museum there. The Sugar Beet Museum. It sounds tedious until you consider that sugar comes from roots. Fascinating stuff if you pay attention.
Catrin went inside once. At eighteen. The rest of her childhood was spent climbing rusted farm equipment outside the walls. Much better fun.
The museum has a problem though. It is barely open. One month, one hour block. The first Sunday from 10am until 1pm. From February to November.
If you miss that Sunday, you miss the sugar history entirely.
Feeling tense
Parking is an art. Or a war.
Someone parked wrong recently. A two-car bay became a one-car nightmare because one driver failed to pull flush with the side. We are still recovering. Irritation is a long-lasting condition.
B. Evans in Devon found a sign that tried to stop it. It did so badly.
“ALL VEHICLES MUST NOT PARK OUTSIDE OF BAYS”
Look at that grammar. Underlined “ALL VEHICLES.” The structure is broken. It feels like a command and a prohibition fighting in the same sentence.
Evans called it the “negative imperative.” A new tense born from confusion. Did it mean you should not park? Or that you must not leave your vehicle outside the lines?
Evans solved the logic puzzle. He simply didn’t park at all.
That is the only safe bet. By avoiding the bay, he obeyed every part of the instruction. Did he exist in a state of vehicular quantum superposition? Maybe. We’ll send a congratulatory card just in case.
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