We fourplayed for quite some time, didn’t we? To be honest, it wasn’t always a fourway thing – once in a while, one of us would be away, but in general we managed to keep it going. Much to Patty’s generosity I might add – those samples didn’t often come from other routes. She’s a marvel, that woman. But we felt more recently that we were stretching it a little, and you know what? Fourplay and fourways are exhausting! We thought we’d rest the fourmat (see what I did there?) for a while. Which gives me an opportunity to go solo every week, instead of twice a month. What the hell am I gonna write about? Who knows, but I have to tell you today’s will be messy and unplanned and disjointed – I’ve not given myself time to write. Ditherationsville here I come…
Today, I’ve been out for a walk in the rain. Typical that on my day off, when I want to dig and plant some winter vegetables, it is unbearably wet outside. And the rain, as it falls, seems to wipe all smell away. There are no longer wafts of honeysuckle, rose and sundry other florals anyway, no longer the baked earth aroma of midsummer that smells so much like salty skin. Only the dismal bloody rain and that suggestion of decay – a proliferation of fungi on every surface. There isn’t a scent for that as far as I’m aware – even those CBs have’t quite captured that ditchwater accord.
I said I liked autumn; I’m not quite changing my mind. The burning brilliance of leaves, those low rays of sunlight in the morning that dazzle, the mists which seem to cling to grass like some secret long lost lover, only dissipating when the couple are caught together in startling noonday brilliance. But there is also something sad about this time of year, a natural melancholy of loss and the feeling of time moving ever faster. As a child, remember those summer holidays that stretched out like a gold and orange forever? And now, a whole year goes by in less internal time.
Many of use perfume freaks think of our scents in terms of seasonal wardrobes, and I did indeed shift my bottles around at the end of September. Away to the back of the bureau went Balle de Match, Navegar, Declaration and their friends – their hesperidic or wet accords no longer required. Forward marched my favourite scent types – the orientals. And really, I’ve only worn a handful of these, getting trapped, as usual, into a cycle of favourites.
And this year, my cycle has included two that I’ve been wearing to death all summer too – Chene and Santal de Mysore. Which must, I imagine, make them close to being on my desert island list of 10 scents I could not live without, in desert or monsoon.
Santal de Mysore is in fact close to perfection. There’s often talk on blogs and elsewhere of how Serge Lutens’ perfumes are sweet – too sweet – syrupy in fact. I’ve never got it. I must have skin that absorbs sugar as very rarely do I find them making my teeth sing. I turn dry scents into a world of dessication. Something like Gucci pour Homme makes me feel like that guy I’m writing next to. Chergui, often seen as one of the worst culprits, is more smoky when I wear it; Arabie, spice and fruit and, er, leather. Daim Blond on me at least is the fruitiest and sweetest of the bunch. Santal de Mysore is just perfection. Yes, it is curryish. But it’s also soft, rounded, a voluptuous scent in name and make up. If I could only have one, daft thought though that is, at the moment it would be this ineffable wonder. Gawd, I love it.
Next week’s post will be more coherent, engaging, and exciting, if you leave me comments telling me your close to perfection scent of the moment. Honest. Oh and Billy – you won the Ormonde Jayne samples – get in touch!