So, I was in London on Monday and stopped by my favourite department store. I was daft enough to forget to smell the new l’Artisan vetiver, but I managed to get my schnozz to hover over much of the new stuff I’d been missing out on.
And… you know… I’ve nothing to report. My occasional Fridays are so low on actual perfume commentary I’m surprised Patty and March haven’t given me the heave-ho. Most of the new left me unengaged or non-plussed. The Costume National Homme was… nice. I’ll try a bit harder. It’s a Ropion creation that charts a journey through the spice route to a sweet amber drydown. It’s truly very pleasant. Though the drydown lacks interest and it’s a little too insistently sweet ‘n’ spicy for me.
So, I got home and looked at my shelves of perfumes and divided them into those that are worn with frequency, those that are in the ‘have to keep’ camp, and those that are surplus to requirements. And the news is, I’m heading to around 30. I feel like I’ve experienced some kind of trascendentally scented colonic treatment.
Meanwhile, the spectacle obsession continues to grow, but that’s altogether another story.
As I’m rambling, I might as well tell you about the scents of my holiday – umbrella pines, iodine, chlorine, mint and lime, dog crap, dried male urine, wafts of restaurant garbage, various eaux de cologne and lemon refreshers, sun tan cream, stale drains, hot concrete, rosemary, lavender, oleander (I didn’t know this had perfume), datura, sweat, cool nights, bright light, hot skin, tuna, olive oil (grass-like), coffee, coconut pastries.
And here’s Portugal’s recessionary evidence. Even in the country’s equivalent of Orange County, $10 million homes half-built and abandoned to graffiti, largely of the misshapen penis variety. The graffiti, not the homes. Though there was a heartfelt message to a missing lover. Perhaps those misshapen penises were saying something profound that I didn’t quite follow.