The smell was too much. Vintage Poison Esprit de Parfum in the hair and clothes, and Rogue Perfumery’s Flos Mortis poured liberally on the neck and body. Sweet. Tawdry. But somehow perfect for Marc Almond, as I emerged from the karaoke booth as Burning Bush and we made our way to the concert.
Bottles were caked in face paint (I had neglected to put lids back on in my fur coat pocket), and both flacons emerged later as though through ectoplasm. Smeared with the evidence of the evening.
( convenience store clerk encounters a creature she didn’t suspect)
The thing with perfume is that it stays on your hands, it stays on your clothes; it soaks up a memory while creating it. So the next day, the combined smell of tuberose remained on everything, in the kitchen despite of me, and Flower OF Death is now already quintessentially the smell of Saturday night. I have been overworked these last six weeks and really needed to let go; clad in uptight citrus the whole time I was ready for something more outsized and ridiculous, more Soho Pink Flamingo, and it worked.
(BB makes its way to the stage……….stage left )
And although at first I was skeptical – the stage presentation, the volume, the choice of songs, the everything, after a while magic started to happen and I rushed forward to the stage even though you are not allowed to and actually sang Say Hello, Wave Goodbye with him AT THE STAGE ………………………….he physically handed me over the mic for the ‘goodbye’
The Black Narcissus 