I am, of course, still in hospital.
But it doesn’t stop me perfume shopping in Tokyo.
Because I have discovered FaceTime ( how can I only just have discovered this? What is wrong with me? How can I be so technologically backward ? How can I not have realized this marvellous technological invention, now seven or so years old, whereby you can Star Trek yourself and another on your phone, see their face, live what they are doing?!
Yes, I know Skype, but it always sticks; and you are stuck in one place huddled stupidly around the computer. With this, and sorry if I sound like a spokesmouth for Mark Zuckerberg, I can hear the birds in my parents’ garden and see the flowers; I can show them my first steps at walking in the hospital, I CAN SCAN THE SHELVES IN CHEAP PERFUME EMPORIA via Duncan, miles away, from my bed).
D was in a rush, putting the finishing touches to the film with codirector Yukiro Dravarious – the premiere is on Wednesday in Tokyo, which, to my great disappointment, I obviously will not be able to attend ( even though I am one of the stars!)- BUT I hope to be able to catch glimpses of some of the action, the arrivals and reactions, via this phone, and come the summer, assuming my bones will have knit together correctly, we will have a Resurrection Of Burning Bush Special screening, for those of us who can’t make it to next Wednesday’s glamstravaganza.
So five minutes with the camera: gleaning the bargain bin selection there at the front of the shop (I opt for Vivienne Westwood’s Boudoir Sin Garden, as I love the original, liked Libertine also, and at that price it doesn’t matter).
Can you go to the glass cabinets, inside, cry I, and so the blurring lens snakes its way through the racks of bric-a-brac and clothes to the glass, see pictured, where the images keep jamming and I wonder, in a froth, what I should select.
I ponder over Hermes’ Jardin En Mediterranee, and briefly consider a figgy moment, but then recall being bored by it several times at various airports.
Mitsouko parfum, for nine pounds sixty nine? Yes I think so. Strangely, I have been craving it. The blandness of hospital smells has me craving the chypre; occasionally my visitors will be wearing real perfume, and I catch an olfactory glimpse of everything that I am missing. I need those depths; that clandestine, clove-prickly oakmoss.
I am supposed to be getting out of here, now, on May the 15th ( they won’t let me go until I am more confident on my feet, and to be honest, I wasn’t ready. I am walking, even if my knees, inside, feel like broken shards of crockery). That doesn’t last, though, and on the whole, I feel I am getting to feel more sturdy; like Lou Reed, I am beginning to See The Light.
Until then though I wheel round the hospital, read my newspaper in the sun, avoid as much as possible that sulking, weirdo ‘nurse’, and look forward to my visits, which tomorrow shall include some proper, Tokyo megalopolis perfumed booty.