Monthly Archives: September 2025

The Black Narcissus : How was the Antaeus?

Persolaise : I really love it – and I’m grateful to you for giving it to me, thank you. I wore it the other day and it kept me company for hours and hours. I could still smell it on myself when I woke up the next day, in fact. I love being greeted by the faintest whisper of perfume, first thing in the morning. Except this was a couple of notches above ‘faintest whisper’.

N is for Neil : Good that we had a ready ‘fume mule’ in my sister.

(note: I picked up this classic vintage Antaeus a couple of years ago for Persolaise, knowing he loves it, in an antique ‘recycle’ shop in Kamakura that no longer exists; took it back to the UK along with a rare Dioressence Eau Parfumée in my suitcase in March; Dariush went to my sister’s workplace in Soho to pick it up the other day).

In the Good Old Days I would have just sent Antaeus in the mail to you, along with some scented CD compilations in a carefully art-collaged envelope. But posting anything from Japan has become impossibly hassle-laden – and you can’t send out so much as a vial.

D is for Dariush : Well, it’s the same in the UK, as you know. I used to love sending vials and small samples to friends and family. I guess something awful must have happened to make them change the rules.

N: I think it was 9/11. And then the anthrax / liquids on planes / bombs etc. All the rules got really draconian after that.

Re Antaeus, by the way, how did you first discover it? Did you spend a lot of time hovering about perfume counters at department stores as a teenager like I did (I found my own treasures like Obsession and Guerlain Vetiver that way). In truth, though, most of my early loves came directly from upstairs in my parents’ bedroom. My mum worked at a department store and always had excellent taste : she bought Chanel Pour Monsieur, Paco Rabanne Pour Homme, Eau Sauvage, and Givenchy Gentleman for my dad, all of which I plundered mercilessly for school – it was an excellent perfumed education – but also No 19, Rive Gauche, Nina, Ysatis, Oscar De La Renta, and many other lovely creations for herself. We never really had any macho scents around – except the vile Dunhill at one point – so I grew up primed for the elegant.

When did you first smell Antaeus?

D: The only answer to this is: I can’t remember.

There are several perfumes to which the following description applies. I don’t know when I first smelt them. I never wore them. I didn’t know anybody who wore them. And yet, I feel as though I’ve always been aware of them, and they’ve always been there, somehow, as part of the general olfactory profile of my life. Antaeus is one of these, as are most classic Guerlains, and the pre-1980s Diors like Miss Dior, Diorella etc.

So, no, I didn’t hang around perfumery counters…except for those managed by my mum, who worked in retail for many years. And this was in Dubai (before it became the blinged-up extravaganza we know now), which was, of course, a superb place for being immersed in perfume.

So I suppose, yes, it was very possible that I could have picked up an Antaeus tester and smelt it while I was at one of the shops my mum managed, but I don’t have a memory of doing this.

I didn’t properly, ‘consciously’ discover the scent until much later, when I was in my late 20’s, I’d say, and then it was instant love.

N: Antaeus was always one of those ‘look, don’t touch’ perfumes for me. I was deeply compelled by that dark, peppered black onyx; so HARD; shiny; impenetrable – but I could never have worn it. I fell in love with Pour Monsieur instead (in the après rasage format in particular – I still dream of finding a vintage version again).

D: I think I know what you mean. And your words touch on one of the many, many things I think about when I wear and consider Antaeus.

It’s a real ‘geek out’ perfume for me, in the sense that wearing it is as much a physical, visceral experience as it is a rational, intellectual one. I both feel it and think about it.

I’ve never thought about this before, but I think that must be what defines my favourite perfumes: they are the ones that speak to my soul AND my heart AND my gut AND my mind.

I find it quite mesmerizing. Hypnotic.

N: It really is.

We must discuss vintage vs current.

The last time I tried the Chanels in-store at some Yokohama concession, the Antaeus was recognizably Antaeus – that pencil led/ granite hardness – but it also felt attenuated; thinner. That’s why I bought you this – I was curious to hear how similar/ different you find it to the original. The current Pour Monsieur on display smelled DISGUSTING – like fly spray with some faint oudh chemical in the base – a catastrophe.

D: Well, this is what I wanted to ask you about it…although I’m aware we could be opening a massive can of worms, going down a dangerous rabbit hole (insert metaphor of choice), because this is such a contentious area.

The geek in me wants to do a side by side smell session of this bottle you’ve give me with the newer one in my collection. (Mind you, I think even the ‘newer’ one is about 12 years old). I really must do it. I suspect it’ll reveal what you say; that the older one feels harder somehow…..more in keeping with the the classical allusion in the name.

(note by N: I just had to check origins of Antaeus as I didn’t know;
‘In Greek mythology, Antaeus was the son of the Earth goddess Gaia, and the sea god Poseidon, who was invincible as long as he was in contact with the earth. He challenged all travellers passing through his land to a wrestling match, killing the defeated and using their skulls to build a temple for his father. Heracles defeated Antaeus by discovering the source of his strength and lifting him off the ground to crush him in a powerful bear hug.’

(Ah……. so almost invincible, but with an Achilles’ heel – an appealing vulnerabilty lying beneath all the posturing. ) I like this element to Antaeus.

D. Awful confession coming – I’m not actually a vintage obsessive. And I do really love current Antaeus…or at least the bottle in my collection.

But generally speaking, wouldn’t you say that Chanel have done a good job of maintaining the standard of their scents?

And as for Pour Monsieur , I haven’t smelt whatever’s been the current version for years, but I wondered if you picked up the edp, which has never been all that great.

N: Up Geek Creek!

I mean obviously I am way more the ‘Vintage Queen’ – with all the Japanese flea market and antique shops finds I have had over the years and my gushing constantly about them all on The Black Narcissus, it’s probably what I am known for, but I do remember that when you stayed at ours with Madame P in 2017 you went straight for my Caron Bellodgia parfum on the dresser and sussed out immediately that I had added cloves – or that the cloves were way more prominent than they should have been. A veritable Dariush Poirot! You know your stuff, bitch!

But I must disagree about at least one Chanel perfume. I have lived with bottle after bottle of vintage No 19 extrait, and I know for a fact that aside the initial hoodwinking iris in the current version, they bear NO resemblance. Having said that, I prefer contemporary No 5.

D: The whole question of vintage is such a minefield, for so many reasons.

We often talk about these things as though prior to some arbitrary date (1985? 1988?) all perfume formulae were set in stone and never altered. But that’s just not the case. Indeed, in terms of pure consistency, ‘quality control’ (yuck), was probably far worse in the past than it is now.

I remember Frederic Malle saying that when he was working on the Legacy versions of some of the Lauder classics, a major problem was that there was no such thing as a definitive formula for many of the perfumes. I’m sure he wasn’t exaggerating.

So, going back to your example of No 19 (I treasure the bottle of extrait I found in Japan) I’m sure that from one batch to another there would have been differences in the galbanum, the iris, the vetiver etc.

And then there’s the whole question of how and old bottle had been stored; whether it had sufficient oxygen it it to start warping the contents blah blah.

It’s all so complicated, and sometimes I think life is just too short to worry about such things.

N: But the Antaeus I smelled recently – while initially far superior to the Pour Monsieur – really great top notes – just didn’t have the stamina of the version I grew up with.

Which is precisely why I wanted you to have the sweaty bollock original.

How was the Dioressence, incidentally?

D: I’ve just had two sniffs so far, but the drydown is beautiful. And it’s so NOT Guerlain and NOT Chanel. The Dior couture thing was so distinctive in those older scents.

N: Dior is so CRUEL – in a magnificent way.

D: Cruel or Cruella?

N: I do feel this was just a bit of a clapped out old fag hag but Cruel AND Cruella; Dumb And Dumber – a failed Opium but with more class. And I LOVED the bottle….that blue….it was hard to relinquish.

D: I’m very grateful. But let’s save this for Part Deux…

Back to perspiring privates.

Now you have bought cojones into the discussion (I was wondering when that would happen!) This makes me want to ask several questions, but I’ll start with one…

What do you think of the word ‘sexy’ being used to describe perfume?

N: I mean Kouros is INSANELY sexy so I can definitely do crotch jock.

Antaeus is also hot AF : : : THE OTHER (and why I could never wear it – Cristalle is as manly as I can get Chanel-wise)

D: Yes, yes, but I meant in a more general way: what do you think of ‘sexy’ as a descriptor of perfume?

N: It can’t be helped. People can’t describe scent. They can’t all wax lyrical like the perfumisti – something is either ‘fresh’, ‘sexy’, or ‘strong’.

Luca Turin got it wrong when he claimed that perfume is not used primarily as a sex magnet. The vast majority of the populace simply DO wear scent as a moronic charm substitute. A juice for rutting.

Re ‘sexy’ – if you combed through both of our ‘blogs’, you are right, the S word might never/hardly come up – but you can be sure that on most of the TokTik perfume video channels, all the false eyelashes and glitterbeardies are using it all the time.

D: Okay, so in a way you’ve answered my question. I’m not especially interested in why other people may or not use the word ‘sexy’ – I wanted to know what you think of it, and I think you’ve strongly implied what your view is.

Personally, I HATE it. I think it’s one of the most reductive terms of all time. One of the rules I set for myself when I started Persolaise was that I would NEVER use it. I was also determined not to use it in my book. I just think that, through sheer overuse, it has become utterly meaningless. And terribly lazy..

And yet…and yet..

Ubiquity aside, it is of course, a brilliant word. And there are some (not many) perfumes that genuinely deserve it. And I think Antaeus is one of them.

I find it so fascinating that you went for that very particular anatomical description earlier, because I think Antaeus absolutely radiates ‘below the waist’ energy. And I think that’s another reason I love it. Because even though I geek out on it and enjoying intellectualising about it, it has this presence, like this sardonically smiling thing lounging on a plush sofa, giving me a direct stare, saying ‘All that geeky stuff is all well and good, but let’s be honest: we both know why you really like me.’

Whether or not it makes ME feel like some kind of magnetic stud is something I’m not sure I can answer. But I do know that the PERFUME projects that sort of feel.

Do you ever ‘see’ perfumes as equating to parts of the body? I’ve just said that I think Antaeus is ‘below the waist’ (lots of hip swaying; maybe some Latin beats playing in the background) but I think some perfumes are ‘head’ perfumes, some are ‘gut’, some are ‘chest’, some are ‘arms’.

Does this resonate with you at all?

N: YES

When the temperature is in the low to mid 30’s, a spiced semi-catastrophe from 1992 is probably not what you should be wearing. But I saw this in the collection just now and fancied it as a pointlessly spiced antidote to fascism (the royal visit? – gross).

I unfortunately don’t have the fiery red breasticle above – the ultra rare parfum. I only have the edt – whose cheap tackiness in person isn’t quite captured in photos; such feeble plastic; so unluxurious.

The not quite there-ness stretches to the scent itself – not to mention the hopelessly gaudy and unartistic ad campaign featuring some Italian nineties woman suddenly fancying herself as the custodian of an Afghan harem via the business lounge of Siam Reap.

There were quite a few thuds like this in the nineties, as perfume houses tried to veer themselves away from the ‘excesses of the 80’s’ but still hadn’t really found anything to substitute them with. We are very far from emaciated Kate Mosses in CK Ones here – Asja is still aping on about Opium and even the original deliciously baroque Fendi – but is simply not convinced enough by itself to give us the full run for our money. The perfumer was the great Jean Guichard (Obsession, Loulou, Eden), a man not known for his temerity in throwing everything into the mix to create a smooth amazingness that no one else could have come up with: here, in this cinnamon ambre-lite – which could easily double for a plug in Halloween pumpkin spiced latte Airwick – he (allegedly) tosses in

apricot

raspberry

peach

bergamot

lemon

carnation

cinnamon

honey

nutmeg

ylang ylang

bulgarian rose

orris root

mimosa

egyptian jasmine

orchid

lily of the valley

benzoin

sandalwood

amber

vanilla

styrax

musk

and

cedar

but all we get is a clogged vacuity; we want a ‘derangement of the senses’ but are just left vaguely bored. Hot and lifeless. I wonder what happened? I quite enjoy Asja in its own way as I do like a shake o the spice once in a while – and this is definitely spicy. But it is seriously missing something. Like a soul.

Sometimes you have to adjust your expectations.

I am a jasmine freak – well documented on The Black Narcissus – maybe no one thinks the flower suits me, but I do, and practically marinate myself in the stuff in the early summer months . It euphorizes me like no other perfume ingredient – a robust ecstacy that supercedes the supermarket concrete of daily banality.

I tend to go for tropical jasmine soliflores rather than the French Colonel Pinkertons with all their petty civet and unnecessary aldehydes; I just want to smell like Indonesian garlands, not pissed on pearls.

My Eclat De Jasmin has lain unused, trapped in its African wood box for many years – mainly because I didn’t take to it, but also because the spray didn’t work. The juice stayed impatiently inside until I found another usable spray from another bottle after my Armani obituary the other day – I thought I would give this jasmine another whirl.

*

Since getting back from the hospital I have been trying to get used to my new knee replacement (still not convinced with the horrible clicking and pain, but anyway), I have also been embroiled in the horrors of Japanese bureaucracy – trying to get physio from nearby hospitals rather than crunching my way halfway to Kawasaki on my orthopedic agony; off to immigration for visa renewal : trying to navigate the extreme suspicion of Japanese banks who assume you are a international money launderer if anyone sends a transfer through – with all the shite happening all around us on the news, all the time, relentless – it has been trying.

At the same time, although my body seems to be saying Neil, no more perfume for the time being as my skin is suddenly more sensitized and reactive since my post-surgical rash – I often cannot resist. Today is a literal layering of vintage Givenchy Gentleman (leather patchouli) with Dusita Douceur De Siam (a woody rose champaca) and it is perfect. Not being in artificial lighting nor fucking air conditioning, having fresh fruit and vegetables and the d and our projector and films is heaven – and I have been writing prolifically for my Japan book which I think will probably be quite dark, crazy, revelatory, and, hopefully, very funny.

In the meantime, if I am going out, even in a hospital environment, there will be at least some perfume – go strangle yourself in the toilet if you don’t like it. Particularly , inexplicably, a particularly decadent YSL Champagne in my collection I am obsessed with : the fizzing, cassissy lychee and roses over powdering rotting mosses is driving me wild : I need another bottle and kneau where to get it ( good walking practice ! Come on bitch ! Just a bit further on ya cracklin fake cartilage and Sophia Grosjman’s most peculiar and weird creation of over abundance awaits ya !)

The other day on a whim I had two sprays of Eclat De Jasmin on a whim on the other arm in tandem with Champagne for a proper test drive. What an odd one ! No classical jasmin de grasse here, nor Southeast Asian sambac: instead, this is the fruitier, but grumpier, Egyptian jasmine absolute, meddled with dark roses and an incredibly persistent, purified – almost aquatic – patchouli that coalesces – quite stylishly – into a contemporary chypre. Given my hobbling visual presence, I thought I smelled quite chic and untypical in this. I don’t know if the physio sgreed, or the commuters on the train, but bap de la bap, I don’t really care.

I am all for a bit of gauzy enigma when it comes to perfumery. On Fragrantica there are some worried reviewers warning young women not to wear Eclat De Jasmin because they might come across as power hungry, angry businesswomen – not feminine and pliant enough ( all in a similar vein of the current fascism taking over a certain nation where a pundit can get away with saying ‘Taylor Swift, shut up and submit to your husband’ or whatever he said on top of all the sick racism – fuck off !! – NEXT !!), — reason enough for a person, anyone, male or female, giraffe or unicorn, to wear a perfume like this in protest against the Encroaching Edicts That Menace. A scent that is bit an anomalous, curious, brooding, and (kind of) sensually interesting. Armani’s raison d’etre – aside amassing a massive fortune – was, ostensibly, to make elegant creations that drew you in to the mystery of another person – not just the stark chromosomes and gun totin’ oversimplifications of the current pink and blue. Fragrance should not be a furtheration of these head splitting cretinisms. It should be an expression of individuality – hanging on the air with an intriguing question mark …..your own immutable paw print.

I will be wearing it again.

I was never chasing the Giorgio Armani lifestyle. I could never have afforded it for a start. I don’t do beige, nor any colour between brown and cream, and this was a designer who revolutionized the fashion industry with his soft padded, deconstructed re-inventions of the suit – both for men and women – and invented the term ‘greige’ (I summed up my feelings in more detail about the always, sometimes overly, ‘tasteful’ Armani Universo in a piece on his by-the-book, Milan-Paris haute-generality perfume Nuances if you feel like a deeper, Chapmanian delve).

And yet the first (and last?) ‘designer’ item of clothing I ever bought was a muted khaki blouson denim jacket by Emporio Armani at the age of 16. I had seen it at a posh men’s clothing store that opened at the top of our road, Dovehouse Lane – the same place I bought my first ever perfume, Xeryus by Givenchy. At that age, saving up money from my paper round or working in a record shop on Saturdays to pay for one item of luxury I had been coveting was very exciting. And it was good to have that feeling at least once, just to understand it, but also see through it (I have nothing but philosophical contempt for those who believe that buying a Louis Vuitton handbag or Balenciaga sneakers will somehow ‘elevate’ them in society); I was also buying into the same ethos I suppose by getting all frilly round the gills thinking how cool I would look in my new jacket, with its slightly too exaggerated and rounded shoulders and poufy sleeves – even though deep down I knew it didn’t really suit me. When it finally went on sale I rushed up to the shop and handed over the money to the sales assistant – a grand old 75 pounds if I remember correctly- came home and stared at the label for hours on end as it lay on my bed with a sense of invidious victory. I wore it a few times, and realized it looked crap – but it was certainly an interesting youthful lesson to have learned.

I fared much better with Mr Armani’s first men’s fragrance, Armani Pour Homme, which was my first ever signature, and about which I have previously written on several occasions with great affection. Xeryus never really worked – much as the girls loved it at school – I only ever really enjoyed the top notes. The citruses in Armani – the crispest ever? – Sicilian lime, bergamot, mandarin, and green orange; basil-tinted over nutmeg and vetiver moss – blew my mind as a slender adolescent and I wore it for several years. Later in life, I came also to adore Armani Pour Femme – his first ever fragrance, and in my view, a masterpiece. I still wear both to this day.

Armani’s biggest blockbuster by far – and probably the engine for much of the company’s financial growth (still – quite an impressive feat – independently owned – the man controlled everything), was, and still is, Armani Aqua Di Gio Pour Homme – the smell the nineties, not CK One as is often erroneously assumed. I personally detest it – so ubiquitous you couldn’t escape it for years, all that calone and freshness and underlying woody London gayclub business – it desperately got on my nerves, ingeniously constructed though it undoubtedly was. I liked the women’s edition, Aqua Di Gio, which came first – Helen had that one when it came out, a new departure for her – this was aquatic in a joyous, foamy, fruity very turquoise way, Aphrodite on a surfboard in Capri, and was a clever transition from the original Gio (see my review from last year, ‘Throat Grabber’ – which tells you everything you need to know about that most unsubtle of orange blossom tuberoses that I secretly have a buxom soft spot for).

Orange blossom, that Mediterranean symbol of sunshine and happy freedom, was obviously a love of Giorgio Armani – it is probably the note I personally associate the most with his fragrances. Ordinarily, I blanch or migraine up very quickly at any airport’s Duty Free (don’t you?) – the vast majority of perfumes on offer for the masses literally disgusting – a pit of stomach nausea and a tightening cerebral compression as they bore through like drills to your cortext – though I thought Si Passione, that perfume as red as nail enamel, had reached a certain convincing zenith of that particularly overdosed fiori di aranci archetype that symbolizes the done-up-to-the-nines Italian donna. Last August, at Singapore Changi Airport I was also surprised to find myself liking My Way Floral – stupid name but a really lovely Tunisian neroli, with all the citric trimmings that I was almost verging on buying (a very big compliment for me). Otherwise, pleb-wise (Armani was one of the earliest to adopt the higher echelon Privé social segregations of perfume versus the Christmas Presents For The Chavs Boots gift sets), it was all the neverending flankers of Codes, White She, Stronger Yous (god help us) and all the other rum clichés that his Money Engine department must have been drumming up on a regular basis (Mania, from 1999, was an exception to this rule of commercial dullness- a spiced, warm woody oddity I once owned and partially enjoyed, but, being vaguely interesting, it was obviously quickly discarded from the pitiless Milanese roster – and now goes for a fortune on eBay for those in the Manic Know).

To the Privés. I kept track of them for a while and always thought they had a certain rich, muted, simplicity and holistic wholeness that made them alluring. I have Eclat De Jasmin, which I bought from a Yokohama recycle shop, and though it reminds me a bit of plasticine, it has a certain oddness that makes me want to keep it in the collection. I liked some of the fresher perfumes in this collection, (Oranger D’Alhambra is heavenly, D and I enjoyed Figuier D’Eden; I quite enjoyed his Vetiver Babylone and one of the most precious and hard to find perfumes in the world, La Femme Bleue, a sample of which was gifted to me by the lovely Birgit of Olfactoria, when the world was so much less fascistic and you could send things through the post; Armani have done some very solid oud/rose Middle Eastern elixirs transposed through an Italianate lens, such as Ambre D’Orient and Myrrhe Imperiale; many of these I would quite gladly own and wear on occasion if I found them cheaply (good luck with that ).

So many of the high end Armani perfumes have passed me by over the years, though, and so many have been launched in the ensuing years of torrential perfume releases, that I have lost touch with the Privés (do, then, please enlighten me on any must tries that have slipped me by. Do readers on here rate the line highly overall?). On freewheeling Tokyo days, I would sometimes go up to Ginza to the towering, intimidating flagship store on Designer Boulevard – just down from Hermès – and sample some of those sage and demure perfumes with their amethyst, jade and magenta pebbleish caps – and be vaguely pleased by them. You would never find me in an Armani cafe or Hotel or any other Armanified building – I am allergic to such spaces – the Bulgari restaurant in Ometesando with its logo-embossed chocolates, for example – what, ingesting a brand as well as buying into the entire cosmos of brand diversifications where they want you surrender your very soul – and then your branded digestive system to a conglomerate — I think not.

This all said, I respected him. He was so…….Armani. There was a dignity there; a through line of stability and true-to-himself-ness that must have been extremely control-freaky in the extreme to witness up close, but then again the successful often need that level of uncompromising fixation on their own craft and image to make their way in the world and stay there, and he had a reputation for being very gentlemanly. As one of the richest men in Italy, and a national icon, Armani had a blistering successful career you can only stand back and applaud. He dressed the rich and famous, his designs were often extremely elegant, imprinted in the global conscious. I also admired his cultural position as a sober, if conservative, ‘elderly gay statesman’ in the industry, conferring a certain gravitas on his sexuality that engendered respect. Where would we be without all the homosexual artistic geniuses – Michaelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, Caravaggio? Yves Saint Laurent, Alexander McQueen, Karl Lagerfeld? Armani was an important part of this aspect of human cultural history – and something worth remembering in these increasingly homophobic times. He was unstoppable; working, apparently, right up until the last days of his life – and he leaves an important legacy. I will be re-investigating all the Armani perfumes in my collection over the coming days. Do give me some of your own reminiscences. To have have positively touched or impacted another human being in this life through the impulse of your creativity- even if ‘only’ through a ‘diffusion’ line of a fashion company with your name embossed on the clothing label, or a flacon of scent – like my beloved Armani Pour Femme and Pour Homme, perfumes I cherish- strikes me as something worth commemorating and celebrating.

R.I.P.

D bought me a lovely powdered incense pouch – swayingly sense-pleasing – from the beautiful Koushikitotenkudo incense shop down Komachidori shopping street in Kamakura, on one of his five or six 15-minute visits.

I hung it from my cupboard – and was allured by it to the point that it took over the room : and I had to secrete it in my clothes.

If there is one defining feature of Japanese incense, it is that there is usually something slightly disconcerting subliminally hidden in the mix : be it a sharp camphor, clove, wince of roasted seashell : a profoundly musty, ancient smelling patchouli, like life in Japan itself, it is rarely easy.

This gives it profundity. An exquisiteness that nevertheless sometimes pulls at the stomach : freshness and light pitted against soft sensuality and pinching austerity and unmistakeably Nipponesque hauteur.

Suika features rosebuds, cornflowers, cloves, cinnamon bark and sandalwood. It has a magnetic giddiness; real throw; but also an olfactory punch from its contradictory melee.

At the shop above – highly recommended – you choose the powdered incense blend from a selection of eight, plus your embroidered pouch and himo cord from which to hang it ( you can perfume a room; yourself; a drawer..), making it a delightfully personalized gift. My heart lit up when d brought it in.

Interestingly, d chose the same blend, Suika, I also chose for Helen as a souvenir this spring (how did this one pan out, H- did it get softer and more drowsy as the informational insert says it should ?). Intense at first, when placed in the padding of a kimono, its compelling eeriness of light sexuality – just the slightest drift on the air – is a million, million miles from the crass, Chernobyls of duty free chemical nausea. They are different universes. And I certainly know which one I prefer.

Speaking of universes, mine is going to change when I leave here in approximately two hours.

I have mixed feelings. Has the operation been successful? I don’t know. The pain increases with the harder exercise; the reduction in opioids – at my request – and the further I walk. There is a very unpleasant ‘click’ with each step that the doctors, nurses, and physios say ‘might’ improve with time, or might not. Mmm. It was better before the op than it is now. But we are still at the early stages – and I am committed to following the rehabilitation instructions to the letter, am strong, and will do my best.

Hysteria aside – plenty of that in other posts – I want to leave this chapter of the Narcissus with some positives.

I am lucky in having an innate fascination with other people – the interactions with the nurses have been really enjoyable. Linguistically, it has also been very stimulating. In my daily work life I speak in English with my English teacher colleagues – that is their preference – as well as in the classroom. Half my J-neighbours want to speak to me in my mother tongue to practice: I therefore, as a terribly lazy student, don’t usually make so much progress with my nihongo.

Here, however, I seem to be speaking it at every turn to the point where it just comes out naturally before I have even thought about it. Sometimes I am spilling utter gobbledygook – as a nurse didn’t hesitate to tell me last night (“I have no idea what you are talking about”) – but at others I am simply conversing and understand everything they are telling me. I know this should be a given considering how long I have been in Japan, but trust me, that is not always how it works.

I have been steeped in Japan, with all its Japanese obsessions – food; the heat; black bears on the loose; the price of fish – the TV on in the background, without sound. We don’t have it at home – and that is exactly how we want it – but it is good once in a while to flick through the channels – and fixate on hot seventies rugby players.

I have enjoyed writing, reading, thinking, listening to music – David Sylvian’s ‘Brilliant Trees’ album has been sublimer than ever;staring into space (you can do this guiltlessly when you are in hospital). People-watching.

But let’s face it : I am ready to go. I have everything packed. I have my lovely Suika incense pouch in my pocket. D will be here to get me in ninety minutes

I have always wanted an allergy test. It’s good to know what’s going on in your body.

First : the reason why I was busted out of prison — sorry, was released for two hours from hospital to go am unaffiliated private skin clinic near the station because the hospital doesn’t have its own dermatologist ( thrilling last Friday as I was rolled out into the sunshine and the into real world in my wheelchair with my greasy hair and pyjamas – I thought they would bring someone to me – all the sights and smells ; vanilla cream from cake shops, hidden McDonald’s fries ; human beings strolling by in the hot summer air deliriously stimulating – the reason for this liberating exhilaration being a series of potentially dangerous diagnoses.

I came into hospital with a raging sweat rash under my left armpit. The local doctor gave me steroid cream. I asked the hospital if it was ok. They said yes. Then when it got worse, trapped under regulation pyjamas – ok pajamas for those who are more accustomed to that spelling – pictures were taken and it was diagnosed as thrush.

Candida.

The problem being that whatever it was had also spread down my back and – crucially – around the wound.

Ouch !

Yuk !

Vile ! – I hear you cry.

Yes. And imagine my own dismay learning that if candida gets in the bloodstream and starts destroying the organs there is an in-hospital 30-40% mortality rate ( fortunately I had the wherewithal to resist Googlimg at the very moment of crisis or I would have gone down the tubes).

I used the creams. The rash raged further. My instincts said get a second opinion. Even if it made me a mondaiji pain in the ass.

Japanese doctors’ are usually incredibly chintzy and naff. Sorry to disappoint : probably you were expecting gleaming futurism or zen-like beauty – but sorry babe, y’all is living in false cliche / misguided stereotype that don’t exist. The reality is dusty old teddy bears, homely, foul brown plastic slippers (death embedded in an object – d and I are flung into mortal abyssi just seeing those miserable creations being sold in any cheap, grannyfied dispensary), ; greying net curtains, ceramic Siamese cats – I have got used to it all now, but the fake flowers – this skin place was full of them – do get on me tits

Ahem. Come on Neil —it’s only one day til ‘discharge’ – get a fckn grip !! (I might have done actually if there hadn’t been a screaming ninety year old spine patient — poor bloke ! — with the bellowing lungs of an adult shouting

ITAI DA YO

ITAI DA YO

I T A II DA YOOO !!!

it hurts !!

over and over and over at maximum volume in the last few days driving everyone on the ward to utter distraction .. to be honest I am just writing this Allergopalooza – fresh from the clinic ! – to pass a few hours before bingeing the stupid Love Is Blind UK just to survive til the fucking morning.

A l l e r g I es

I am not particularly allergenic as a person. I don’t have eczema. I do get hives under duress. I get bad skin sensitization with Guerlain Shalimar and Kenzo L’Elephant. The hospital wanted me to have an allergy test juste en cas.i was intrigued by the notion in any case. Bring it on! This is the year of Discovery; The Telephone, hypnotherapy, psychic phenomena, seeing whether an artificial limb works when it is buried inside your carcass — you may as well go a step even further and find out what you long suspect your body has had a reaction to and have it confirmed at a clinic with unscented bog freshener but rose-perfumed toilet tissue.

Get to the point bitch

Ok. I will.

S U R PR I SES / NOT SU R PRI SE S

The blood test – the results of which came back today – they take a week ( I had time to comb my hair ! And change into civvies ! And stick walk into the clinic with my head held high not wheeled in like bald dalek stavros from dr who !) give a 0-6 rating for allergies: 6 being the maximum, pretty severe, 1 negligible ( I am not going to stop eating bananas because of this; so nice with komatsuna spinach, carrot and apple in the morning !), 3 to be aware of and try to avoid.

Here goes !

( I am totally aware btw that I am ‘oversharing’ today but just give me a break : these are trying circumstances, and I need an outlet – so do, if ya feel like it, tell me of your own l’il allergies. I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.)

Them pesky mites

I get 5.5s for bedbugs and house dust ( D ! let’s go new Hoover shopping ! I have no phobia of vacuum cleaners !) – but I knew this already. Virtually the whole country has the same thing. As they do with

S U G I ( cedar, a 4 )

and hinoki ( a 2); and butakusa (ragweed), a 2, which grows in terrific abundance at Kitakamakura station and which makes me sneeze q badly every September

Half of Japan, statistically, has cedar pollen allergy – the government actually considers it a national health emergency.

I didn’t have hayfever in the UK growing up, but my kahunsho debut, as they call it here, began about fifteen years ago when one day I started sneezing in a local forest.

I am lucky – mine lasts roughly a week : the good thing about being as reactive a person as myself is that medicines work rapidly as well – one histamine tablet and bob’s yr uncle. I have Japanese friends who suffer terribly with cedar allergy – and two foreign friends who had it so badly they had to leave the country for months on end every spring.

Essential oil-wise, I think I have always known that I get a bit itchy when using Virginia cedar and hinoki oils – I quite like the hearty lumberjack / ancient samurai vibes, but knew, instinctively, I there was something.

CARAPACE

I am shocked to get a 3 for shrimp/ prawn — nooooo I love them ! – but the dermatologist said with a smile that they are probably ok if cooked :::::: no problem for me as I never eat sushi and sashimi in any case ( crab is a number 2 – pffffff – couldn’t care less).

A weird one – in at number 3 – is…

COCKROACHES !!

Shit. I will have to cut down on cockroach consumption for the benefit of one’s health. How will I do without them, sprinkled on my morning latte ?

No, it’s not about munching on the gokiburi but having them skittering about somewhere in your environment – which we don’t – and I am not about to go scooping them up when I see them scurrying about near the garbage cans of Shinjuku, antennae a -twitching.

I shall try my best to desist from licking the dust off moth wings from now on ( new with a number 2!) — no I actually don’t mind them; call me the devil’s daughter but I prefer them to butterflies, whose colours may be pretty – and Mariah Carey sang about them so well – but whose fluttering and flapping my person makes me sick.

Getting a bit bored now which means you probably are too. Should speed this up.

Baguettemageddon

Flour : NOOOOOOOOOO !!

But I knew this intuitively already. I love love love good bread and will not be deserting my beloved baguettes – but really brown-wheaty holier than thou rye bread has long made me look like the world’s most pregnant male – ooh that some yeast (candyda!) kyuukin up a storm there in the gut area innit — so shall bear this in mind.

Other comestibles

Fish, fruit, vegetables, rice, milk, chicken, peanuts ( I could live on peanuts) all zero – yey! Interesting that I get a 2 for beef and pork as I am not a huge carnivore and do get a bit bloated after any meatfest: having this information won’t change things one iota

ALLERGIES TO ONE”s own Pet (!!)

dogs and cats – a number two – but I am not about to throw my eighteen year old cat in the trash – I have always hated it when she licks me so now have good reason not to : I can still continue our morning strokes and nightnuzzles

The full list !!!

Ferns ! (1)

Sesame ! (1)

OTHER ALLERGIES NOT ON THE OFFICIAL REPORT

GROMALD FRUMP – off the fucking charts allergic from the very first moment on the escalators

RACISM – you think you are going to heaven to meet Jeebus if you hate someone for their skin colour

NATIONALISM – base: stupid; unphilosophical

AIR CONDITIONING – don’t get me started

ANYTHING COWBOY, ANYTHING

Deep reactions to Stetsons, hide fringes – how could Lana Del Rey go in that direction ; can’t do Madonna Music, Gaga Joanne, Kylie Golden, and definitely not Beyoncé Cowboy Carter – the visuals produce extraordinary antibodies – have always despised westerns, stirrups, rifles, Country, yee hah, bucking blonco; cowpats; anything brown – except chocolate brownies

CAR SHOWROOMS

QUARRIES

MUD