Monthly Archives: November 2015

L O T U S

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In Vietnam this summer, at the Temple Of Literature, there was a pond of pink lotuses in bloom. These beautiful, dignified flowers in Buddhism represent enlightenment, being raised and far away from the soil; an emblem of grace and the search for something higher.

The flowers are also drunk as tea. As green tea, the leaves are put inside the day-blooming flowers overnight so that they cannot close, in order to suffuse the tea leaves with scent, an almost cruel-sounding practice that I nevertheless was very enchanted by: so simple, yet so effective.

Lotus tea is available everywhere, in sachets at supermarkets, and is delicious; refreshing, but floral with a beautiful, balsamic aftertaste, and I bought a couple of boxes of it which I have already got through at work. I also, however, bought some of the highest grade variety from a gorgeous tea shop in Hanoi, and have just opened it for the first time and we have been drinking it upstairs in the beautiful afternoon light – this taste and delicately perfumed savor putting me, slowly, into a dreamily relaxed state, detached for a moment from the horrors of humanity and the contemporary world, where everything seems to be going crazy, where interlinked violence that began centuries and millennia ago, through endless intolerance, and arrogant colonialism, and racist bloodthirst, and greed and exploitation, and is still reverberating now through the world on a daily basis, as we hate each other and kill each other and gun each other down…..and so much of it caused by religion.

And despite this purifying tea I am sipping as I rant this pointlessly, even the Buddhists, in Myanmar, are persecuting and ‘ethnically cleansing’ the minority Muslim Rohingya (er, don’t you wonder for a brainless second what the Buddha himself might be thinking about this, people?);   that asshole Modi is stoking up Hinduist nationalism in Delhi and persecuting Muslims; Conservative ‘Christians’ in America walk around with rifles and have no compassion for those in less fortunate social positions , and ‘Muslims’ shout glory to God and then slay people with grenades, slaughtering teenagers at a pop concert. Great. Well done. I am sure that Allah is delighted with your work you evil fucks.

No one seems to be able to RELATIVIZE and understand the simple fact that we are all human beings, and that the only reason they are following their (usually twisted) religion in the first place is because of geography, because of the place that they HAPPEN to be born, and that if they had been born somewhere different they might be just as fervent about that other religion as they are about this one; that if you had been adopted, say, by an Iranian and were living in Tehran, that you would in all probability be a Shiite Muslim, and that if you had been adopted by a Japanese (though you never would be because of the intense xenophobia), but if somehow you were, you would probably grow up as a gently atheist Shinto/Buddhist materialist shopping mindlessly in Yokohama.

Why can’t people understand this fact. We love our country and think it is superior simply because we ARE FROM THERE, not for any intrinsic actual superiority, and the same goes for religion. It is completely, and entirely arbitrary. You believe what you believe purely through circumstance, through chance, through ‘education’, through brainwashing, not through some kind of geographically specific celestial selection process where everyone else on the globe is automatically consigned to hell just because they are different from you, just because the particular religion that you just happened to be born in was for whatever historical reason influenced by that particular belief system. And while we are at it, how about asking how many GENUINE Christians there are out there anyway? Or Jews. Or Muslims. In their hearts, not just methodically going through the liturgical motions. Really, in actual truth? Those who actually follow the teachings of Jesus Christ? Or Muhammed?

I am sickened by it all, by a world that is peopled with idiots who can’t fucking think for themselves for a moment and stop and just use their limited, moronic brains and THINK. Just THINK. T.H.I.N.K. A little bit of relativity is all we need; we don’t need to KILL other people just because they have adopted a different religion (whose God, or central spirit, if he/she/it exists, is probably one and all the same in any case, the spirit of the universe, the creator).

I don’t know. I have no idea either, I am an open-minded agnostic who is interested in religion but full of the most bitter contempt for prejudice, mindlessness and hypocrisy, and despair at the profoundly imperfect species that we are (er….created, supposedly by this vindictive ‘God’ who then punishes his people a la Noah for perverting its ‘free will’…even before I heard about the horrors in Paris on Saturday afternoon, I had, the night before, watched an abominable Nicolas Cage film called ‘Left Behind’ in which pure little children and Christians were suddenly all zapped into heaven from the world (leaving just their clothes behind on the floor, in shopping malls and in drivers seats, to unintentionally hilarious effect), but black comedy or not, the film left a very jarring sensation in my mind as I went to bed, about what kind of religion this must be, where the creator just spitefully picks out a few people he likes and then annihilates all the rest, even though he is meant to be all about love……..this film was in fact really quite nauseating and in any case, mister, er, well in that case,  you didn’t have to make human beings so flawed in the beginning did you? You could have literally made them ‘perfect’ (boring as hell though that would have been), and then we would not be in this ridiculous mess that we are in now, would we? where peope are totally incapable of accepting each other and die for their ‘god’.).

Anyway, I know I shouldn’t really put this up because it is badly written and will cost me readers, because some people are just so prissy and ‘offended’ by ‘swear words’  or whatever and this is meant to be a ‘perfume blog’ and this is just tossed off in anger, but then again why not, I might as well,  I can do what the hell I like on The Black Narcissus, and my freedom of speech and thought is far more important than any other considerations. I have to express myself.  I feel so furious. Not just fury towards those ISIS fucktards who are causing such mayhem and sorrow, but to ‘we’ who invaded Iraq needlessly and created them in the first place, towards people’s hideous limitedness of thought and adherence to ‘scripture’, even though it was written by humans, often centuries after the fact, and that so many of the world’s ‘religious’ people are not actually religious at all, not following the religious tenets, nor truly understanding the often beautiful and inspired messages that Jesus, Mohammed, Moses, Buddha and all the rest actually wanted to tell us.

So let me just drink my simple, and naturally beauteous lotus tea, let me sup on its delicious fragrance, and sink into the peaceful moment for a silent second, and pretend that everything is alright.

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PARIS

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November 14, 2015 · 3:04 pm

SOMETIMES THE BEST PERFUMES JUST DON’T MAKE IT: : METALLICA/METALYS by GUERLAIN (2000)

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I have written about Metallica, Guerlain’s dreamily beautiful semi-oriental of carnation, orange blossom and spiced, cushioned balsam vanillas before (in my lengthy treatise on carnations).

But this morning, upon lazily waking up in the p.m and reaching out onto my dresser, I found that, instinctively spraying myself with Olivia’s very generous decant of this now rare and discontinued Guerlain (she and I have very similar appreciations in perfume, which is how we ended up meeting at my Vanilla talk at Perfume Lovers London), I raised up the back of my hand and I sighed……

How is it that such genuinely mysterious, and quite mesmerizing, scents just fall away by the wayside? Perfumes you can’t quite prise apart, that are beautifully, intuitively anti-intuitive and hermetically unseamed. That blossom like fresh, living and breathing flower petals on the skin, while below, in the dusky musks of their hollows, reveal  tantalizing glimpses of intelligence and romance, and exquisitely tentative sensuality.

When the package of preciousnesses, a collection of quite often now unobtainable scents full of Neilishly-selected suitability, came in my parents’ suitcase this spring, this was one of the first scents that I took out and wore on the night that we, Duncan, my parents, and I, stayed up in the beautiful ancient city of Nikko. Walking down by the sacred river and its Shinto, white-gushing waters, the air fresh and bright, bracing in its fast, mountainous, and oncoming April, Metalys, or rather Metallica, its former name, formed a delightfully contrasting inner world as I walked along simultaneously quite conscious of the beauty of nature and the sky, but also the internal, artificial perfection of a  work of art. To me, this curious and alluring perfume is the most perfect olfactory representation of a particular corallish, orange-pink colour; one that swirls around itself in an ambiguous, marshmallow goodness; ambered yet fresh; open yet concealed; a composition based on love and endeavour, not on cynicism; the talented expression of a true perfumer (Jean Paul Guerlain) that stimulates the mind, the heart, and the senses.

Just as a real perfume should.

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SEXING THE CHERRY: LOUVE by SERGE LUTENS (2007)

Source: SEXING THE CHERRY: LOUVE by SERGE LUTENS (2007)

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SERGE LUTENS ‘LA RELIGIEUSE’ (20I5)

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all perfume writers are guilty of giving too many words to serge lutens.

for obvious reasons we give in to the plot, the summary the framework the bullshit the story the poetry, get sucked into the whole shebang (and very, extremely, pleasurably – i love, or really like to be more honest, so many of the perfumes from this ‘line’).

and yet yesterday, when i smelled this in shinjuku isetan (and wondered how the hell had i missed it? how did i know this hadn’t even come out yet? isn’t a new release from this man like an album from a pop star?) i felt that, aside a pleasing (because i do have my tacky side, really, seriously, and i love bubblegum) jasmine and banana, but hasn’t that idea already been done more interestingly in encens et bubblegum, that whole madonna in the church thang) like i say top note of something indiscernible and banana ish and pink (it could’ve been a tuberose, a polystyrene wrap, another nuit de cellophane, which i love incidentally and bought twice, once for me and once for helen, thinking of our berlin trip together and our helmut newton exhibition but i was wrong; she hated it, and was indignant upon leaving the helmut and rightly so; : ‘ i never want to see a pair of tits again in my life” was i think the refrain, and she was right : just so pneumatic and otherworldly, but talking of helen, i remember that in the fifth year at school, at tudor grange, i chose art for the simple reason that i wanted to sit next to her and have at least one subject that was relaxing.

‘but you are too clever for art’ i was told stupidly by my geography and history teachers (neither of which i had even the remotest interest in), and i was adamant about having one time, just one hour or two a week  where we could just sit and talk and sketch still lives or whatever, and in fact i didn’t’ regret it in the least (although i have NO SKILL WHATSOEVER when it comes to drawing and painting –  i can create ‘whimsical’ grotesqueries that can work, kind of-  i enjoyed the experience anyway. all that stress. it was nice for us to just sit down, and for me to get on with my totally rubbish ‘still life with primrose’ or whatever it was (the piece i did as my final examination). so UTTERLY dull. my finest course work piece was literally a detailed drawing of a turnip. a

turnip.

replete with all the right hairs and lines, but absolute CRAP nevertheless, no holds barred.

helen was a million miles better, as was her sister. their father being an architect they had inherited some ability in at least drawing a human figure (you should have seen mine, they were probably indistinguishable from the turnip), but in any case it was lucky that julia was around because if i remember correctly, helen LOST her entire course work ( we tended to lose everything, be late for everything, forget everything, resulting in our infamous homeless episode in siena, tuscany but i digress) at least helen could just slightly bullshit around the titles of her sister’s homework and HAND IT IN AS HER OWN, even though in reality it was an (utterly predictable) tragedy that she had lost her own portfolio. she was really good, but

she got away with it (miraculously).

but what was far, far more miraculous was that i got an A. for my turnip with primroses, and my other horseshit ( i thought that if i put ‘eyes’ on everything it would make it more mysterious and ‘surreal’ (we were just discovering salvador dali).

the thing was, i was good at TALKING around my crummy, and worthless, course work. i had the gab. and i can remember quite vividly all the guff and the spiel i wrote around my course work, how i talked it up, how i managed to lend it something that it categorically DIDN’T HAVE.

and getting back to the subject, isn’t this, in a way, the situation we have now with christopher sheldrake and his muse and mastermind bullshitter, serge lutens?

‘la religieuse’ is actually much more up my street than a whole lot of other serge lutens perfumes of recent years, as i never wear woods, i never wear incense, and i love me some white flowers, some osmanthus, and even some dip shittingly urban white musks if need be. i am the serge lutens fan who loves louve, and nuit de cellophane, and even that weirdo datura noir.

but in truth this latest release, without the blurb to go with it, would probably not catch anyone’s fancy.

i did quite like it; i liked the amorphous sweetness of it; the curious bubblegum. but at the same time, it is, in a way, a weeny bit pathetic (unless you feel differently: i’m kind of looking forward to being proven wrong about this and go back), but then again ;could this not just be our brainwashed reaction to uncle serge and the ridiculous need to want to like it?

no matter what it is like?

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THE MANDARIN & THE TOMATO : VICE VERSA by YVES SAINT LAURENT

ESPIED ANOTHER BOTTLE OF THIS YESTERDAY

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MAISON FRANCIS KURKDJIAN – CIEL DE GUM & OUD SATIN MOOD

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by Olivia

I found it, finally, in Paris. I’d read about it months beforehand, my heart simultaneously skipping and sinking as I read through the notes and the ever-hyperbolic PR spin (it sounded wonderful/I knew I had to find this, inevitably Far Away Land exclusive.) Having just left the hushed purple womb of Serge Lutens Palais Royale – a shop like no other, beautifully suffused in pomegranate, shadows and stars like an empyrean antechamber – and leaving the lesser interested party dangling his feet in the mossy fountain in the Galeries de Valois, I spun off towards Maison Francis Kurkdjian. The day was hot and sticky and the crowds swarmed and bumped along like glistening dodgems as I veered along the Rue de Rivoli. Maison Francis Kurkdjian’s tiny boutique, cool, conservative with a carefully spare urbanity – was when I found it, a little entirely deserted oasis.

Released in 2014 to celebrate the 120th anniversary of the GUM department store in Moscow, and inevitably exclusive to that shop save for MFK’s miniature flagship in Paris, Ciel de Gum is a warm, spiced floral amber. The top notes present a somewhat deceptively transparent accord of pink pepper and cinnamon. These fiery spices are painted here with the trademark effervescence of the perfumer; rather than burn and tickle, they sparkle and glint as if seen through a kaleidoscope’s refracted sunlight. Soon though, these melt into a fuzzy, sepia jasmine and the same wash of loukhoum-like rosewater that suffuses the delectable Cologne Pour le Soir from the same line. The jasmine here, spun and spiced with cinnamon reminds me of the furry indolic Egyptian variety of The Different Company’s Jasmin de Nuit. The rose though is quite subservient, playing very much a supporting, sweetening role. Once the basenotes, a baroque recline of velvety amber, a scuff of leather and a blurry glaze of vanilla arrive the effect is that of being buried, suddenly swallowed, within the heaving chest of a hugging Aunt – a whoosh of warmth and skin and draped fabric. It’s thick and chewy, enveloping and decadent, familiar and yet somehow exotic. It is a closet of comfort, redolent of fur stoles and pain d’epices, as golden as the domes of St. Petersburg. There is a faintly tarry nuance that joins the comfort blanket of amber – specks of tobacco leaf and liquor, a warming nip of something sweet and strong clasped with frostbitten hands. Inside that glazed vanillic cocoon, there is a hint of fireplace, a dusting of coal perhaps, bringing to my mind snow melting on dark kindling and glowing tinder from the hearth. It smells like the place between battered boots, stamped icily on the doormat, and the toasty snug of heavy coats.

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Although it is undoubtedly vanillic, this is not a gourmand perfume. Rather its sweetness pays a homage to the lush balsamic Orientals of the past – Fendi’s Theorema, Coco, perhaps even a little Obsession. It has the same fudgy texture as Musc Ravageur, although the indoles lent by the jasmine here in no way combine to resemble the kitty tummy animalics of the Malle. The honey-and-hide quality also reminds me of the toothsome, musky nectar in Centerpiece extrait from 4160s Tuesdays.

Though this perfume, coloured like a lit Christingle, is certainly enveloping and rich (smoldering perhaps even), it has been made with the lightness of touch characteristic of Kurkdjian. There is plenty of air here between the notes, and it’s carefully steered away from anything sweatily overwhelming. This is the drama of Russian Orthodox liturgy refracted through a very contemporary Parisian lens. Despite its warmth, it is in some ways a nostalgic perfume: a bathetic tribute to the luster and pageantry of a Tsarist past. This edge of melancholia amid the grandeur of luxuriant balsams and comfort strikes me as a fitting scented token of the heirlooms of bounty and theatricality, personified (it seems from photos: I’ve never been there) by the grand and gilded GUM store.

Whilst I’d fired myself towards Maison Francis Kurkdjian specifically to find this particular perfume, once there the assistant introduced another, perhaps for me at least, even lovelier scent. Eyes wide and excited, she told me she’d been offered a bottle to have as her own (I know, right…) She’d tussled between Ciel de Gum (‘so beautiful for winter’) and the new Oud Silk Mood. The Silk won: ‘so sexy! So fabulous for the nights!’ ..I hadn’t even heard of it to be honest. Actually I probably wouldn’t have bothered seeking it out given that I wasn’t taken with the Oud trio (Oud’s Cashmere, Silk and Velvet) of a couple of years ago, all three of which were heavy handed and abrasive on my own skin – a whirligig carnival of industrial solvent and hot oily metal with a pulse of pure filth.

This is different. Again playing with texture and the evocation of fabric, this is an altogether more feminine scent (though not girly, and the distinction is always important!) Taking the recently revived idea of a lipstick accord (seen in Malle’s Lipstick Rose, Chanel Misia, Guerlain French Kiss) – a combination of rose, violet and sweet powder – and blending that dainty, quite French association with the rich jamminess of an Arabian rose perfume, this is truly a gem. A ruby wrap of a perfume, the opening is heady with a crimson confiture of rose and sweet violets conjuring skin swaddled in burgundy. This burnt muscovado sugar and dark rose is full bodied and throaty, a vibrant ‘come hither’ shower of lush petals. It definitely has a boudoir and bodice feel to it, referring again to the playful, cheeky feminity of lipsticky perfumes.

But as this elixir like potion warms on the skin, a smoky baritone curls up through it and anchors the macaroon-flecked florals to a ballast of chocolaty amber, peppery oud and dry woods. The auburn thrum of benzoin and treacle-like labdanum sing a sonorous baseline with the oud, whose woody and smoky facets are teased out leaving behind the funk and rot it can imbue. The whole thing is blurred with a dusting of rich vanilla, which serves not to make it edible but to bind and blend. It wears like a radiant shroud, soft and lovely, with a wonderful ruby like interplay of light and dark. A decadent, dark loukhoum oud, as sexy, and as fabulous for the nights as promised.

While the rose-oud thing is obviously nothing new, and for many of us has reached total saturation point, I think this one is worth seeking out. It’s a beautiful perfume, combining sensuality with wearability and showcasing Kurkdjian’s masterly treatment of florals under a Middle Eastern gaze. While much of the MFK line could be classed as having an almost android perfectionism – attractive, beautiful even, but all so conservative and hermetic – these two perfumes represent the most interesting releases since Absolute/Cologne Pour le Soir. As with other scents from the brand, they exhibit the gingerly constructed compositions and the steady hand of a craftsman with an innate feel for his materials. But while that same precision in other fragrances can augment too streamlined (sterile, even) a feel, here it is bolstered by a more forthright voluptuousness. Both these perfumes are expansive and vivacious, but also possess the lush and fleshy oriental feel of the best of Kurdjian’s work.

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NARCISSISM : : . KISS MY NAME by RAMON MONEGAL BARCELONA (2OI3)

I quite like this.

 

But then I suppose I would.

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I love (and hate, actually) the name, for a start – so imposing, so absorbed and self-centred and aware; gutsy, forthright and on the ball (and when you know that we are talking about a busty, ribald Piguet Fracas-ish affair – but less coutured, less of that ilk, more vulgar, if more vivid and contemporary – you see how this Tunisian neroli and Egyptian jasmined modern and urban furnished apartment take on the self confident tuberose could quite nicely work,  taking in self-consciously the ideas of me me me me; I will stamp myself upon you when I meet you at the party because for once I don’t smell like strawberry chemicals and bullshit, I have a bit of sass, and some pizazz, and smell quite sexy and nice)………………

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But what is the name of the perfume you are wearing?

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” KISS MY NAME”.

..

“What?”

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THE GOOD LIFE……..28 LA PAUSA by CHANEL (2007) + SILVER IRIS by ATELIER COLOGNE (2013)

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IT’S MY MUM’S BIRTHDAY AND AS SHE WASN’T HOME JUST NOW WHEN I CALLED (PROBABLY OUT AT THE BUTCHER’S ARMS HAVING LUNCH OR SOMETHING), I THOUGHT I WOULD JUST DO A QUICK TOP TEN, ALL THE SCENTS THAT REMIND ME OF HER

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Like most perfume maniacs, a mother’s own interest in perfume, even if she had them on the dresser, and wore them frequently, or all the time (which is half the reason why you are now so besotted with them yourself) is no way near as deep, nay maniacal, or obsessional than us weirdos, who rather than just using les parfums as mute accessories, as something that you just do, plunge for them five dimensionally and wax on and on and blah blah blah about them ad nauseam because we we are sick in the head or mad in the nose or just horrendous Baudelarian sensualists who just can’t say no.

But this was supposed to be about my mother, All About My Mother (don’t you adore that film?), and the perfumes that I associate with her. Or the ones I project onto her, which is quite a different thing, possibly, though maybe it isn’t.

Anyway, I have to go to bed, and should be in bed already, and have just got in from a mind bending teaching session, but I just can’t resist the idea mum of doing a quick random review of the scents you smell in best. It will come out randomly, and I might have to rejig it half the way through, but here goes:

I0. ESTEE LAUDER YOUTH DEW.

This never suited you. Too spicy. Too patchouli chypre-ish. Too….Mediterranean (Daphne, Duncan’s mum, does these things very beautifully: Opium; Coco, anything patchouli and earthed like Magie Noire, perfection; but somehow they don’t quite work on Judith Chapman). And yet: THAT BOTTLE. It is my very first perfumed memory. And you in a fur coat, some time in the eighties, glamorous and ready to go out….

Still think it smells a bit like coca-cola though.

9. MADAME ROCHAS

Again, you would probably deny even having ever owned it, BUT I KNOW BETTER, BECAUSE I WAS A NERVOUS, ‘POETIC’  AND OVERWHELMED LITTLE BOY WHO NOTICED SUCH THINGS. You never wore it. It went rancid eventually, but that bottle was most definitely there on your dresser or in the bathroom at some point with its strawberry chypre mannerisms and that fact alone has seared it quite fully into my consciousness.

8. CHANEL NO 5

Because you have always had a whole load of it in all its concentrations, and it suits you beautifully, even if it doesn’t quite do you justice.

7. CHANEL ALLURE

I associate this with you for all the opposite reasons. Because it was so wrong on you that it basically made me literally angry.

6. GIVENCHY YSATIS.

God this should probably be much higher in the list, and I wrote a whole rhapsodic and traumatized piece about this and Givenchy Gentleman and how they affected me so much, but I can still smell this when you first bought it and how it ROCKED MY F*&%& WORLD ON THE STAIRCASE LANDING. SO beautiful. So complex, and yet sensual as a mink-kissed jungle. J’ADORE.

5. OSCAR DE LA RENTA.

DALLAS. DYNASTY. This WAS that time. SO Santa Barbra, SO liltily, guiltily, American. Yet although this was a departure for you (my mum worked in a department store for years so was always getting sprayed with the latest releases) this somehow smelled very lovely. It reminds me of babysitting, and being a teenager, and loping around upstairs when you were both out, and, basically, STARTING ME QUITE EXTRAVAGANTLY ON THIS PATH THAT I STILL FIND MYSELF ON.

4.  CARON INFINI

We are now in the realm of perfumes that I have introduced YOU to rather than the other way round, but this utter beauty is one that we are now fighting over (readers you should have seen the LOOT that this woman took back home with her in her suitcase, it was obscene).

Infini is elegant, it is that aldehydic floral that suits you way more than anything else, it is rare enough to be distinctive (because only Japan seems to have an unlimited supply of the vintage parfum; it pops up EVERYWHERE), and you wear it so much better than me that it is embarrassing. Mater, in Infini I salute you.

3. BALMAIN IVOIRE

You never really liked it. You said it was ‘too sweet’. And yet I spent an entire Saturday in Birmingham fretting over it, trying to buy you the ultimate perfume. I would go into Rackhams and smell different perfumes ( I think I was seventeen), smelling them on scent strips in books on the lawn down by the cathedral), then go back and suss out more, and then try to imagine what would suit you…….I suppose ultimately I was obsessed with this perfume all on my own, and the thrill of buying it. And when I went to Rome in I992 I sprayed an entire expensive leather bound note book with this scent and it thus reminds me of that now.

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Realizing now that there are more scents than I had realized. I know you fell in love with No 22 when you came to stay this April during the cherry blossom season, and it is definitely a winner on you. No I9……nah…… sorry that one’s mine. Guerlain Jardins De Bagatelle (possibly the finest perfume silage in the whole world, I love it, and you kind of like it but it’s still not quite holy grail material (Emma wins the contest with this one, no holds barred). Chanel Gardenia, YES, I am liking that one on you big time but I can’t quite bear to part with it somehow……there’s something about that paper embossed Gardenia on the box that gets my inner otaku going……pure collector-ism…… RIVE GAUCHE most definitely deserves a mention as I did love that one on you, and, yes, god how did I think this could be just ten, but ESTEE LAUDER WHITE LINEN is a massive mum hit: gorgeous. Remember that time when you were working and someone asked you if you were wearing white linen and you said no, actually it’s muslin, or silk or whatever and then you realized  what they were in fact asking? This one is perfection. Which is why you most definitely didn’t say no to the vintage parfum that I presented you with from the collection this spring (Readers: my parents stayed and slept AMONG the perfume collection like the pharaohs and queens of Egypt, surrounded by perfumes, it was inescapable; and then mum would espy a bottle she liked (let’s face it, she likes the bottles as much as the scents) and we would tussle over it. Many I could relent to. Some others (Vol De Nuit, say, no f*&*&g way).

No, ultimately no 2 must be I would say…

2 NINA BY NINA RICCI (I987)

No, not the red toffee apple shite dumbo, I would rather die than give that to my mother, but the original perfume, which she wore when it came out, which is so lovely. Again, an aldehydic floral, lilyish, green; complex and mossy, but just so diaphanous and lovely. In fact I found, the other day, a 50ml PARFUM for three dollars (Brielle I know you are dying reading these words) and I am obsessed with it. I added just four drops of bergamot oil to revive it (it was unboxed) and now it is unfurling itself and blossoming itself into the feminine masterpiece that it always was. I wrote about this recently, actually. You at the races in summer. Wearing this.

This is why I love perfume.

I.

Obviously, there is no contest. Nothing else could ever compete for the title of THE ONE. It could only be

FIRST by VAN CLEEF & ARPELS.

So funny the way one particular perfume works so brilliantly on someone’s skin. In fact I have smelled this on other women, girls at university who made it smell different, somehow, gorgeous in their own way, but my brother and sister

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( I wonder what you would have been wearing here (at left, obviously); me, Deborah, Greg, nan, and Dad (looking very dashing)

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will attest to the fact that this IS you, utterly and supremely. An aldehydic green floral with jasmine galore (always your favourite) and blackcurrant buds to boost it, this just smells perfect on you every time. Almost heartbreakingly so.

But look at the time.

I have to get to bed.

Mum, happy birthday

Neil

xxxxxxx

Incidentally, chers lecteurs, what are you own maternal masterpieces? I’d love to know.

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