Author Archives: ginzaintherain

I went to see the (currently intensely raved about and) future Oscar contender ‘ One Battle After Another’ with a friend last night. The film, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, whose films I have sometimes liked but never loved, was exhilarating in parts, if ultimately disappointing – far too simplistic and clobberistically hammered home for a film supposedly deliciously satirizing the current political mood – – but at least I smelled gorgeous in the cinema.

We had an endless summer – I wanted it never to finish- and were then plunged into a cold rainy early winter. With a constantly aching leg, and possibly a trapped nerve (should I do the right knee as well on November 27th as scheduled? An existential dilemma), the chilling damp exacerbates the pain. So did sitting in a cinema in Yokohama for three hours unable to find a comfortable position, stretching out the leg onto the seat in front like the bad gaijin I am – the country is obsessed with how terrible foreigners are at the moment, and you do feel a bit of a pariah the second you step out the door. Melanie and I couldn’t help making comments throughout the film, though, and even laughed – gasp! keep your emotions to yourself! don’t laugh out loud in a Japanese cinema! – self control is always the key, didn’tcha knew? – because the film was hilarious in parts; Leonardo Di Caprio’s best role ever I would say, and because I have always been something of a noisy fidget who can’t keep its trap shut.

In colder weather I predictably switch to the ambery. And all year I have been layering; it seems impossible to wear just one perfume. I get more pleasure from constantly comparing and melanging. Right now, while stocks last! – the divine combination is Laura Mercier’s Ambre Lumière – a more wearable Obsession, gorgeous actually- and Guccy Envy For Men – a delicious gingery amber that it seems I was born to wear and which the d loves on me: the Ambre Lumiere, down to its last dregs – (both are of course discontinued and phosphorically expensive on ebay – 100, 000 for the Gucci, what? as only the best perfumes always are, so I should be sparingly stingeing my way through the remaining juices but naturally I do the opposite: spray them on the shoulders under a Uniqlo light undershirt; the Envy on the beard and behind the ears and on the clothing, and on the wrists, and goodness did it smell lovely all blended together last night. Bliss. I love that cozy warm undernuzzle, when, even if what is transpiring on the screen is insulting to the intelligence, as it often was – M and I groaning and eyerolling quite often when the caricatured lefties and righties uttered their ludicrousnesses – the rightwing racist c*&^%s as hateable as you wanted them to be; the wokeistas often equally irritating (probably Paul Thomas Anderson’s point – it’s all a load of fucking bullshit even if I know what side I am ultimately on): when your own body is emitting such fragrant heaven though – M was wearing Matiere Premiere’s Encens Suave which I gave her a decant of and might be her future signature – Somalian frankincense, vanilla, coffee, she is in love – it worked great with my own bundle.

I am all for spiced ambers. A particular fave is the original Guerlain Heritage Eau De Parfum – piquant black pepper melting into one of the best balsamic drydowns I have ever experienced – where can I get a bottle? – and I must say that the new ‘Above Us, Steorra’ (?) reminded me a little of the Guerlain at times when I tried it the other day at the new Aesop store in Kamakura – The Elephant Man out perfume testing.

I love cardamom, even if I have never been satisfied by its usage in perfumery – no one ever uses enough (only the one perfume I ever made by myself, Java by The Black Narcissus, fulfilled the cardamomonic quotient). In the shop, on first spray I said, ah yes, frankincense – I was told: no, amber and pink pepper, but of course I was right – obviously there is a lot of olibanum in this you fool – over vanilla and labdanum….quite a nice, physically hot and spicy new release even if ultimately there was a hint of sports fragrance somewhere in the subliminal mix that put me off. I wouldn’t mind retrying it though nor having this on a casual passerby – at least isn’t yet another Baccarat Rouge copycat. Aesop perfumes are not entirely my bag (are they yours? ) : nice enough; some decent ingredients, but to paraphrase Madonna, they don’t quite take me there. Too…pressed down inside themselves in interior pulverization with no room to breathe and never a lick of humour. Very popular in Japan though; with all the sandalwood and rosy spice recognizably leaking out from the doorsteps of each premises, they have become the new Lush.

The only Aesop perfume I actually have in my collection in Hywl, given to me as a birthday present many years ago but which I would rather die than wear (thanks Denise, in any case). This is one of those uberserious forest scents with some properly hard-assed woods (my god, Sean Penn, excellent granite thighs aside, was ridiculous in that film last night, such a caricature- meaning, of course, that he is guaranteed to win an Academy Ward); cedar, hinoki, vetiver, oakmoss with no sweetening mitigation whatsoever; on my own skin it makes me smell like the very worst kind of Neanderthal Idiot and pick up an Uzi myself and go a bit postal: it is a wrongness I can’t exaggerate in words.. I truly do hate it. So does D.

And yet. I have had two distinct experiences where women smelled so beguiling in Hywl that it almost derailed my senses and I had to do total double takes. This was quite a big lesson for me. The film was perfectly right to mock gender politics – they had become fascistic and oppressive and something was obviously going to give – but I still deeply believe that in perfume terms, though I probably sound like a broken record, bridging the so-called divide between the can sometimes lead to beauteous results.

The first experience of Hywl-On-A-Laday was with my friend Sarah, a British entrepreneur from Liverpool who I have become closer to this year: wild and hilarious and a bit on the neurodivergent tip like me – oh god, I sound like someone satirizing oversensitive asparagus tips like myself in ‘One Battle’ last night – but it is true; we both get oversaturated very quickly psychically in social situations so will just say after a couple of hours together, ok that was great, I am going back now – without drawing it all out for the sake of politesse and we both love that fact; on one memorable occasion singing Prince songs for two hours in a cheap Italian restaurant, whole albums all the way through, to the point of considering even doing a performing tribute band called Bendy and Risa – then saying right, let’s go . Her Hwyl gave her a gorgeous, sultry and unplaceable edge that both accentuated and counteracted her powerful personality. I kept inhaling.

As I did with a young translator I met for the first time either this year, was it or last …recently, anyway – now when was it, kin ell, am I disintegrating ? – I have no idea (time has become meaningless with all the painkillers and and god knows what else…, operations, so much time alone sometimes I just feel that I am going into a twilight zone and actually want to just get back to work and have a more stringent lifestyle if my shite skeletal system will let me ; to get on a more even keel.

Anyway, we met the lovely Helen at a local institution we call ‘The Brown Bar’ down at Kitakamakura station because of its nicotine stained walls and smeary atmosphere though it is actually called – Wabisuke – a slightly cold and unwelcoming, but very bohemian and conducive place we nevertheless sometimes go to because it has great ambience, music and lighting for those local drinkers who like a bit of tango or jazz and to chat quietly and drink themselves to death in the low lights.

I am always slightly nervous in such situations with newcomers. One thing that has re-emerged as an obvious things from this year is d and i’s great difference in social interactions. As I write this, he is at a new writer’s workshop he has organized for poets just down the road at our friend Simon’s – a journalist and poet from New Zealand. The congregated are going to read poetry, give feedback; walk around the haunted lake and write on spec. I am delighted they are doing it but I could never – I would feel so squeamish though I might meet up for a drink with some of them at the local izakaya one minute from here a bit later in the evening once I have finished writing this. Physically I just couldn’t do it right now, anyway (I feel this knee replacement has done something to my whole skeleton, so out of balance I feel like like a de-backboned python ) nor mentally – I like my interactions one on one. D, as I am sure I have written before, is a social butterfly with no hang ups in that regard and will meet anyone. He simply doesn’t have my (osteo) porosity. He likes new people.

Which is how we ended up spending one evening with a lovely English girl from Kendall – I knew she was from there because my previous partner, a certain Nick Chapman I was with for six months at Cambridge many many moons ago – had exactly the same mint cake burr specific to that area in the north. She was very cool, and had just released her first English translation of a novel by Izumi Suzuki, ‘Set My Heart On Fire’, a nihilistic exploration of a woman in the 1970’s Yokohama groupie scene I had happened to have already read a review of in The Japan Times the day before; I envied her young confidence and unforced charm; we kind of hit it off.

Her perfume though: I could never have personally identified it as Hywl; I was just so transfixed by the atmosphere she was giving off I eventually had to ask her. Like a picture with the ideal frame, it set her off perfectly; self-containing her inner confidence, a girl who had recently spent months just ‘being’ in Chile because she liked all the space and the mountains of Santiago and the Atacama desert and thought she would pick up another language while she was at it, and she had a distance about her – a quiet magnetism- that the perfume brought out succinctly. The chypricity of Hywl on her skin – honestly fascinating- was set at precisely the right volume – and brought out a backdrop of intelligence and ‘you will never know me unless I let you’.

I suppose I could do with trying to be more subtle myself in this Helenish way . People might have been coughing on the bus with my ambry spiceness last night (they actually were). Sorry but I couldn’t help it and am going to wear the same combo tonight. I very carefully took my paces out in the rain last night (I can walk without a stick when I want to impress friends with my progress), but I was loving the vibe my own unidentifiable sillage was giving off – certainly not immediately categorizable at any rate (unlike the characters in that film last night, who were either machine gun toting pregnant revolutionaries or repellent smelling white supremacists – Leo himself clearly stinking in his filthy plaid dressing gown and greasy hair – there was no subtlety in that film overall whatsoever and it eventually grated the goat. Which I know is probably precisely the point intended. Sometimes satire needs to paint the picture in very broad strokes so that the audience at large – they are hoping to fill out the multiplexes and teach them a lesson – can ‘get it’. To understand the message (that We Are Living In Dangerous Times, Baby – oh really? I hadn’t noticed. ). And it was funny: the action packed, brilliantly choreographed second of the third hours having me on the edge of my seat thinking wow this is like 70’s Scorcese – so beautifully filmed and propulsive. Quite entertaining. Still, the ending was, for me at least, too moronically basic. Which is also how I don’t want perfume to be. I need complexity. I need resonance, style, subversion even – Hywl had that,on both of the women described above. Why not put a few intuitively felt plot twists into your own life story to escape the obvious and boring we are so surrounded with on a daily basis, wear what is not expected; not resorting to what is typical and prescribed and deathly dull. No: give me something to think about. Immerse me in ambiguity.

I sometimes feel there is a poltergeist here. Yes, I know I am clumsy. But recently things have got a little strange. The other morning I was standing bleary eyed about to make a cup of earl grey – and when I poured in some hot water to heat up the standard IKEA glass vessel – I don’t do tepid – it actually EXPLODED. Not cracked, but like a bomb had gone off. The fragments were everywhere and looked like tiny pieces of ice.

It was good that I had my glasses on — I could have been Eyeless St Claire. Which I don’t need right now : it is bad enough moving around as it is without turning into a Thelma from Scooby Doo.

I think I just gasped when it happened – and then burst out laughing. As I did earlier when my cardamom rooibos fused with my Prive Eclat de Jasmin – making them both unusable – but a bit Marcel Duchamp.

Other oddities have been happening : things tossing themselves off supermarket shelves as I approach, various weird (tele)kinesis – but let’s not forget that Brian De Palma’s Carrie is easily my favourite film of all time and that as a young adolescent I taped the audio of Tobe Hooper’s Poltergeist and learned every word of it off by heart. Am I Carole-Anne about to be sucked into the television ?

Does this make me spooky ?

I have been out of hospital for a few weeks now, trying to manage on this peg leg with its excruciatingly tight tendons and muscles and to get on with daily life; walking the block on my cracklesticks pretending it isn’t as painful as it actually is and deeply missing being able to ride my bike. It’s a good job I do like being at home, even if the solitude gets to me sometimes and beers cannot avoid being cracked open on the balcony to at least escape into a reverie. I have done lots of work on my Japan book, which is starting to shape up into something even if there is still a very long way to go.

Because of the allergic rash I developed back in the deepest swelters of August – it was still boiling even yesterday even if it has (sadly) started to cool off into temperatures that normal people would prefer – I haven’t been able to wear deodorant, at least not in the left pit. I tried it once or twice, but it stang sharply and the spots rushed back in a jiffy, which means that I am left with a tang of B.O in that area that probably isn’t suitable for polite society :the right one I am using a natural ‘Salt Of The Earth’ stick a friend of mine gave me, which I can also use in small amounts on the left as well as long as I use an anti-histamine before going out -to physio (oh yes, this is the thing; contradictory advice from different doctors and rehabilitation therapists – walk, don’t walk, rest, be active; one of them rattles my patellas about like glass marbles in a bag – others would never touch it – it’s all so confusing).

That said, from the outside, at least cosmetically, on a good day it all looks perfectly fine and my friends have been astounded by my progress – I probably should not have gone to karaoke on Saturday night though, nor danced – what the hell was I thinking? – the joint is more like a basted Sunday roast now than a leg, and I ice it as I write this.

But back to armpits. I don’t intrinsically hate the smell, I must say – it is manly, full bodied, not sour or ill smelling, and I discovered that wearing an ‘old’ perfume from 2018, Keahia by Sarah Ireland, compliments it quite perfectly. You will probably be surprised to see me writing positively about wood scents as I do usually hate them – especially synthetic ambers, obviously, but Keahia is a cleverly blended melange of musky vetiver, cedar – though it smells like sandalwood – and a rounding of oud, but in the warm, animal way, not the cheap nastiness that calls itself that and streaks through virtually every contemporary perfume now. There is a floral cushioning of iris and osmanthus as well, but essentially Keahia is an extremely robust, yet gentle offering that has suited this rather feral smelling era of my life down to the ground. With good incense burning in the house, I admit to finding it all rather intoxicating.

After a hospital check up one day (‘You are are doing great! Look at how the scar is healing! Look at your flexibility and leg straightening capacity!) – “Thanks’, he says, as he crunches his malignant oak tree out the door and back to the station – I decided to have a quick sniff at some perfumes to launch myself back into society a bit and to have something to write about except the horrors of stiffening orthopaedica. Some terribly dull new Tom Fords, or new for me – Rose Exposed, Oud Voyager, which were fine in the top but whose bases were banal beyond measure (give me Keahia any day!) : the eyebrowless peroxided assistant at Nose Shop with a million piercings led me to Underground Vibes – ‘try this, this is interesting’ – and watched me simultaneously eye widen and take a couple of steps back.

Ah, I see. This is a full on marijuana perfume, with a touch of synthetically created B.O in the mix, just like the rank goaty smells that would naturally be emanating from some underground joint in Berlin. Clever, Mr Antoine Lie : dirtier than what I normally associate with that perfumer, and quite convincing. Though I would rather die than wear this personally, having a visceral dislike of that herb on every level – you sometimes even smell it rebelliously sneaking out of some invisible space in Japan despite its extreme illegality and I wonder why anyone would even bother risking it- in other countries it is far more ubiquitous I know but the scent goes straight to the pit of my stomach and makes me feel sick at quite a strong, needling level. Still, it works- I can imagine the tiniest soupcons of this perfume on a fashionable young individual striking an intriguing aura in the air around them – even if I find the name – so lame, so literal! – to be unbearably gauche. ‘Underground Vibes’? I much prefer the smell of my one man dungeon at home .

In many ways this a revolting fragrance. It still gives me the pit of the stomach jitters – the lychee/ cassis cat peed on my saturday night costume vibe.

But I have developed something of an obsession with it. So knowing the rarity – and that I could secure a couple of bottles cheaply, hamstrings tautened like about to break violas notwithstanding — my visiting friend and I went to secure a stash.

There is nothing like it

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