The nurses all smell uniformly lovely in here : couldn’t smell soapier nor more clean with shampoo.
The male physios smell of nothing – incredibly odourless or gentle – with perhaps just a vague lingering about their person of what they had for lunch.
I vastly prefer this scenario to the dongschlong idiocy of stale woody ambers that would undoubtedly trail the air behind some hospital employees in UK hospitals – as they do in London airports like malingering clobbersticks. In comparison, this place is a blank canvas.
Perversely, there may come a time though, when I start to feel some androphile yearnings : a hint of bloke.
Could Rogue Bon Monsieur, which d has taken a vague shine to recently, the merest spritz on one wrist only, be the one to stir up the ancient loins ?
On first application, I am slightly embarrassed on the behalf of perfumer Manuel Cross, as this prototypical barbershop lavender fougere – fresh and crisp and very well done though it is – could not possibly smell like more of a stereotype. It is every men’s scent you have ever smelled, particularly Guy Laroche Drakkar Noir, and theoretically I should find it objectionable (I sometimes do: it is a genderbore).
But it also reminds me, a bit nostalgically, of a stick solid deo I used to wear as a teen at school: the top notes sing : it is warm, easy going ; quality crafted.
And in the base, a really good one: predictable though it is, although not listed in the notes, I get the most divine, loitering, muskily armpitted patchouli