Because sometimes you must take refuge in whatever the hell you can.

The Black Narcissus


Fragile, a shrieking, glass-shard perfume of flowers, piercing,  (orange blossom, tubereuse artificielle): always seemed to tread a rather precarious, if alluring, tightrope.

Over crystal-sharp raspberry leaves, capsicum, pink pimento, and a psychological basenote of pernicious, reduced-fat cedar; a cruel, golden shower of artifice for the slenderizing, man-rasping trapéziste was released each time from the atomiseur – providing it hadn’t broken (it usually had)…..and a tressed up manicured contessa in the wings, waiting, aloof, took to the ice-rink gilded stage in cigarillo-wielding readiness.

Like the bottle, a wonderful, utterly impractical and leaky creation that had a hands-on-hips diva in little snowglobe clasped by invisible, power-hungry talons (which unfortunately got damaged quite easily and was then, before the perfume was rendered extinct, replaced by a more pragmatic, if far less interesting flacon), the scent, released not quite at the optimum moment in time somehow (an unusually gauche faux pas from the self…

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