… is the name of the new fragrance by little known Portuguese house Para errar e humano, and I was lucky enough to score a sample by first pimping my body to the highest bidder, then abseiling from the Houses of Parliament, and finally parading naked from John O’Groats to Land’s End, wearing nothing more than multicoloured nipple tassles with motorised twirling action and a codpiece in the shape (though not size – tiny stopper!) of a Serge Lutens bell bottle (later surgically removed).
Enough about me, what about the perfume? Well, never have I come across a less apposite moniker. Said to be designed around the idea of a flag shaped pyramid with a dodecahedronal nature, top notes of bassoon, Guadalajara and emery board waaaay too quickly give way to midnotes of vintage clothes-rack, durian and tarte au citron with the first traces of mould. Within 15 minutes of the first spray (Patience has ‘a patent pending spray device that has to be seen to be believed, combining rustic chic with the evanescence of contemporaneity: we call it “Esguinchar mim!”‘) a mere hint of these notes is left – all that remains is the base notes: ‘a breeze on Saturday afternoon in Oporto, 1963, essence of Lord Beaverbrook and Japanese windchimes’. We found it truly wonderful and although it has all the tenacity in one’s memory of a drunken fumble on the dance floor back when one was young, foolish and unhappy, it would be worth buying if it wasn’t for the price. Setting a new standard for niches, a 5ml bottle of pure parfum (‘in a delectable apothecary bottle, hand etched by virginal spinsters in the hills of Bali-Hai’, though it looks like one you could buy in Walmart), will set you back $450. You’ll also have to visit their boutique in Neverneverland, On a Green Hill Far Away – no phone orders. I’ll satisfy myself with my non-existent decant.
Sorry, I’m being sillly. Though not too far off the mark given the claptrap us scentaholics have to swallow from far too many companies these days. I’m convinced Patty’s budget for her perfume sample and decant business must be heading towards the GNP of a country like Bhutan, given the exponential rise in perfume prices now that – and oh, ain’t we lucky kids! – luxury is back. Anyway, I seem determined to continue to digress. Enough!
I’m writing this because, as we approach holiday season (I do so hope you have lots of social engagements for what some silly Brits label ‘Party Season’ over here – daft arses), I’m waiting on packages that normally fly across the Atlantic in three days but have been slowed down by Thanksgiving sluggishness. I blame all those marshmallows served with sweet potatoes. They’re called sweet potatoes for a reason folks! Ease up a little wouldja?!! Anyway, I have no patience, and their lack of arrival is DOING MY HEAD IN! For one thing, I have nothing, nada, zilcharoonie to review.
Patience is a virtue
Virtue is a grace
Grace is a little girl
Who didn’t wash her face.
My gran, in all her wisdom, was able to debunk millennia of Judaeo-Christian doctrine in a teensy weensy quatrain. Don’t get me wrong, I think Patience is a long way from over-rated. I’m a (sometimes) patient listener, teacher, partner, lover, gardener, cook, walker, thinker, tinker, tailor, soldier, spy, but i draw the line at patience for perfume. If I’ve fallen in love, I whine at the door like a dog in heat. I rush home from work each day, hoping to find at least a note saying ‘We tried to deliver your perfume of delight that will change your life forever, make the stars sparkle more brightly, give hope where there was once despair, etc., etc., etc.,’ but as yet the doormat has only bills, junkmail, Christmas catalogues (Boden x4 is currently the record winner, closely followed by the Cotswold Company), and bank statements (which I long ago requested to be online only – as you can tell, I’m a zealous crusader against climate change…). I dream of delayed smell and wake up pining, empty nasal cavity matching empty wallet.
I don’t know what to do about it. Suggestions please. Alternatively, maybe you could do a little dance of ‘postal delivery for Lee’ (I imagine the moves would work well with a disco number like ‘Young Hearts, Run Free’ by Candi Staton) chez toi, and I might get lucky. I’m a dirty materialist, but I’m happy for very silly superstitions to work in my favour…
Even more alternatively, if Lack of Patience (and avarice – let’s not go there) are my perfume sins, what are yours? Share – we’re in this together, folks, and I’ll tell no-one. No-one, you hear?