Chanel Les Exclusifs Bois des Iles & House of Cherry Bomb Immortal Beloved / Immortal Mine II: "thunkophobia" aka olfactory range anxiety

I have nearly finished reading a book by Hannah Jane Parkinson called "The Joy of Small Things", a collection of her columns of the same name for The Guardian, which were inspired in turn by J B Priestley's "Delight" - a book with which I am not familiar, despite having played the odious Ernest Beevers in Time and the Conways. I remember delivering the line: "You've done a lot of silly things in your time, Mrs Conway, but I think you'll find that's the damn silliest!", whereupon Mrs C would slap my face and a great cloud of talcum powder would whoosh up into the air.

But I digress...

"The Joy of Small Things" is similar in format to the late, great Michael Mosley's compendium of health tips, "Just One Thing", except that instead of being a collection of interventions you could do to improve your well-being, "The Joy of Small Things" features a bunch of things the author already finds conducive to her well-being, such as "The perfect dressing gown", "Cheating a hangover", "Closing browser tabs" and "Recovering from a cold". No selection does justice to the 100 or so titles of small sources of joy she covers. I would urge you all to get yourselves a copy, but maybe hold off for a few months in case I buy you it for Christmas. ;)

It occurred to me that "The joy of thunking a decant or sample" could very well have featured in the book, had Hannah Jane Parkinson been a perfumista. I have found one reference to fragrance in the book so far, but only about the relative cost of cedar and sandalwood oil in the context of an episode of The Apprentice. ;) Re thunking, it's not even about the decisive noise of the glass hitting the table as you set it down, empty at last. It is more the satisfaction of frankly finishing ANY receptacle of perfume you own, however small. There's a glaring paradox in my being a person who hates waste, yet who has managed to acquire a sprawling collection of perfume that will greatly outlast my remaining time on earth.

Source: House of Cherry Bomb

So given my scent surfeit, you might think it strange that I could ever get anxious about running out of a particular perfume. And by "olfactory range anxiety" I don't mean a situation where you apply a fragrance at King's Cross and it wears off before you get to Peterborough, but simply the sense of using something up. I wore Bois des Iles and House of Cherry Bomb Immortal Beloved this week, and found myself getting really quite twitchy about the dwindling level of my decant of each. So much so that I ordered 2ml of Bois des Iles from a guy on the Fragrance Sale / Swap / Split site on Facebook, which arrived today. I realised my original sprayer (pictured at the top of the post) actually has more left in it than I remembered - 3ml maybe? - but still the fear took hold...

Minor reinforcements 

It will be much harder to source some more Immortal Beloved, because this indie perfume house doesn't seem to have a normal website anymore where you can buy stuff, plus it is based in Brooklyn, and I  know to my cost that sending a perfume shipment across the pond is a perilous enterprise, though I might be able to find a US-based "scent mule". The name of the fragrance also seems to have changed since I last looked, to Immortal Mine II. I have messaged HOCB via their Instagram page, but have not heard back. If anyone reading this happens to live in New York, and has news of the brand, do let me know. So for the moment I have just topped up the Chanel by £4.50's worth. Maybe I will have to accept that when Immortal Beloved is gone, it's gone, like Texan and Marabou Delite bars, and Walkers Gently Infused Lime with Thai Spices crisps. And no, their Lime & Coriander Chutney-flavoured poppadoms are not acceptable substitutes. 

I spotted an actual Texan bar on eBay for £99! It is listed as "new", but I'm not sure how it would taste after 40 years...?!

Sticky back plastic: my (historic) run in with seborrheic dermatitis, and testing perfumes in unusual places

Long term readers (or any Instagram followers) may recall that I am prone to several kinds of dermatitis: mainly the allergic and irritant contact variety, about which I have done a few posts, most notably - and graphically! - this one.

I did also have a six month spell of seborrheic dermatitis, which came out of nowhere after the first Covid booster vaccine - I will of course never know if the two things are connected. This consisted of red blotches randomly dotted around my face, and it also resembled dandruff due to the addition of flaky white bits, particularly in my eyebrows and hairline. It was pretty unsightly, and no sooner had some patches subsided than new ones sprung up in different spots, a bit like the Visual Field Test in the optician's, where you have to track a pinprick of white light darting around the screen - or a vintage bagatelle-style fruit machine, if anyone remembers those. ;) 

Anyway, I did a lot of research about possible cures, and eventually lit upon a blog post by a guy who had been suffering from seborrheic dermatitis for many years, trying over 30 remedies to no avail. One of the few supplements that had worked for him was L-glutamine, and since this was the only one of the several things he mentioned that I could readily access, I gave it a go, and sure enough, within a month or so I was completely free of the blotches, and they have never returned. I did find that L-glutamine made me very wakeful at night though, so was glad to come off it, being a scrappy sleeper at the best of times.

Now I can't say for sure either that the L-glutamine "cured" my skin issue - it may have been a placebo effect, as the blogger was so convinced of its efficacy, and these complaints do sometimes completely resolve or come and go of their own accord, which was my doctor's theory. He did still refer me for some allergy patch testing, something I had already undergone seven years previously for the other types of dermatitis I have; these had thrown up that old chestnut nickel, plus benzoyl peroxide (typically found in acne medications to which I have had bad reactions in the past) and more suprisingly, Vitamin E, especially in its synthetic form (tocopherol acetate).

The original test date came through when I was laid up with trapped nerves in my neck in 2022, so it was in fact only last month that my appointment was reinstated. And so on a Tuesday in late August I headed up to a clinic in Basford, near Stoke-on-Trent. The area is a notorious traffic black spot, and I had to run the gauntlet of multiple warning signs saying "Road Work's" and "Delay's" with rogue apostrophes, which I am amazed haven't caused pile ups involving shocked and distracted grammar nerds.

Source: Stoke on Trent Live

At the clinic it took no time at all to stick a big clear plastic sheet on my upper back, filled with lint pockets that had been impregnated with mostly chemical allergens. I wasn't told what any of them were, but was simply urged not to get my back wet until Saturday(!). After 48 hours the patches could come off, as any reaction would have taken place by then, but I still had to keep my back dry till my return visit. Which sounds fairly simple, but turned out to be tricky in practice on several counts. Firstly, the plastic sheet tugged constantly at my skin, pulling it in different directions, like an Elastoplast you have initially put on too tightly. In this case though, I was not able to remove and re-stick the sheet down in another position, so I had to put up with the itchy, scratchy, pulling sensation; this was especially uncomfortable at night when I positively rustled with every move in bed.

I stuck to very shallow sit up baths for the week, which were manageable, but meant I couldn't have a soothing soak for the irritated skin under the plastic, or for my collection of 20+ midge bites, which happened to be in full angry red cry at the same time. (They were mainly at the front and down my sides - had they been on my back I was worried they might confound the test!) 

The next challenge was finding a friend to carefully peel the sheet off after 48 hours, and then go over all the ink marks again, which would help the nurses figure out which allergen(s) had "gone off" - my back had been divided up in a grid system to accommodate the 50 numbered substances. I enlisted the help of my friend Gillie, who is an artist amongst her many other talents; she did a great job of re-inking my back with the marker pen the clinic had provided. She also photographed the area as soon as the sheet was off.

Two hours later, I was meant to take a photo of my back once it had settled down after the removal of the sheet, so I asked a neighbour to pop over and do the honours (it didn't look any different in fact, but we followed the clinic's instructions to the letter). I tell you, where health matters are involved, living alone can be logistically complicated!

On Saturday I duly went back to Basford, trying and failing to unsee the "Road Work's" and "Delay's" signs again, which were still very much in place. A nurse inspected my back and declared that I had had a reaction to nickel and nothing else. It turns out that they didn't include my other two known irritants in this panel, so I had no way of telling if I was still allergic to those, but the nurse said just to take that as read. I was finally issued with a list of all the things they had tested me for, and it was interesting to note that a few were perfume-related, and hadn't bothered me at all. I had rather assumed this would be so, but it was nice to have it confirmed, as the odd friend has suggested that my perfume hobby might be bothering my skin.

Here are the substances I clocked as perfume ingredients - there may also be one or two more I didn't recognise:

• Balsam Peru
• Fragrance Mix 1 & II (I don't know what was included in these selections)
• Linalool
• Limonene

On an unrelated note, I spotted that allergen No 1 is potassium dichromate. Does anyone remember setting fire to that in chemistry class at school and creating a volcanic eruption? Ah, hold on - I just checked and it was ammonium dichromate, not potassium. Here's a video of the experiment I remember doing - fast forward to a minute in for the main action.

Which nostalgic memory - coupled with the fact that it's that "back to school" time of year - reminded me of covering my new text books in "sticky back plastic" - mostly clear, occasionally with a coloured tint. Now there's a more comfortable use for the stuff! ;)

If you have had patch testing for allergies, I would be interested to know what your findings were  - hopefully nothing perfume-related!

Summer in France: Heat, Howls, Hydrangeas, and Hunting Hidden Hughes Houses

It has been a while since my Epona review, which is now on sale for those anxious to try it! I came to France nearly three weeks ago, and have - perhaps counterintuitively - gone and chosen one of the hottest days of the year to sit down and write a blog post finally. It is 38C in the shade today, and was 44C in my car earlier before I got the aircon going. The heatwave has been ongoing since the day after I arrived. No one can possibly believe in that old adage that says men "perspire" and women "merely glow". I am doing a lot more than glowing, let me tell you... I remember my visit in April being the coldest spring trip ever, with the temperature in my house never getting above 13C the whole fortnight. I had five layers on indoors at all times, including a roomy dressing gown over a "coatigan", and prayed to the weather gods that they would make things up to me in July when I came back. Talk about being careful what you wish for!

Heat

You would think the locals would be well used to such searing temperatures, yet the heat is a main topic of conversation in those little exchanges you have with people you pass in the street. There is much sharing of anti-heat strategies (such as closing shutters during the day, which I don't want to do as they are closed most of the year, haha, having a cold shower before bed, laying frozen gel packs on your stomach in the middle of the night etc), and especially suggestions of where to go to instantly feel cool. 

The supermarket (but with the added danger of overspending)

The church (there's a limit to my back's tolerance of a hard pew)

The swimming pool (half an hour in the water, weaving between the Scylla and Charybdis of child-topped lilos, is about my limit)

The library (where the knitting club had a particularly good turnout both weeks I went for this very reason!)

And...drum roll...The "Abyss of Fage", which is a steady 10-13C all year round. I went there yesterday, and overheard visitors saying it would be heaving today, as the temperature was going to be even higher. Down there you actually need a jacket!, but the cold was frankly delicious after the stifling heat above ground.

Howls

The village where my house is has an ever-changing cast of feral cats. There are two main cats on the block at the moment: a shy, and rather beaten up tabby and white that I call "Bruiser Truffle", and a mottled grey cat, who is known amongst English-speaking locals as "The Yowler". 

The Yowler is emaciated and suspected to have worms, but whatever the cause of his extreme vocalising, that cat can howl! It is piercing to the point of ear splitting, and might even be a yowling howling contender for the Guinness Book of Records, like Bella, the cat with the loudest purr.

Same feeding station, different cat

Hydrangeas

I have always been partial to hydrangeas, but on this visit I was struck by how many there are everywhere, and with such enormous blooms! Apparently they have done so well on account of the rain they've had in France - and in England. I have seen every shade of hydrangea on the acidic to ericaceous spectrum, and a friend in the village is kindly keeping me supplied with a single (topheavy!) bloom for my vase.

I also noticed on my sightseeing travels that many of the religious statues were similarly equipped. "What are we going to do with all these hydrangeas??" I can imagine the verger saying, before thinking: "Let's give them to all the Virgin Marys, and the saints if they have room in their niches."

"Oh go on, the cherubs can have one too..."

Walking around the village, there were clumps literally at every turn! Even the dying mop heads had a certain faded beauty to them.

Do you prefer pink? You are never far from the colour of your choice. ;)

Hunting Hidden Hughes Houses

On this holiday I have been reading "An Unauthorised Life" by Jonathan Bate, an absorbing literary biography of the poet Ted Hughes, whose violent, sensual and mythic poems are inextricable from his tempestuous and tragic private life. To lose not one but two wives or girlfriends to suicide on your account - by the same means, even - looks like much more than carelessness, to not quite quote Oscar Wilde. 

Book also accessorised with obligatory hydrangeas

On P175 Bate mentions that Hughes and his wife Sylvia Plath had stayed in a house belonging to American Poet Laureate William Merwin, in Lacam near Loubressac in the Lot. I love houses associated with literary figures, and immediately hatched a plan to seek it out on a circuit of the Dordogne and Lot that also took in Beaulieu and Turenne.

Although I had found a photograph of the Merwin house on the Internet before setting off, I noted in the book that it was well hidden, plus the photo was taken from down the valley looking up at it, rather than from the roadside, so I knew I might have to do some asking around to find the place. The first old honey coloured house I saw in the immediate vicinity of the destination dot on my satnav - which was a bit thrown by the extremely rural nature of the area, and the general lack of buildings of any kind - was perched on a hilltop and reached by a long narrow track. I identified it as some kind of Manoir, and managed to find a phone number, which I duly rang. Turns out that I was in the hamlet before Lacam, but only about 800m away. I was to look out for a house with pale blue shutters, and irises at the front.

No one mentioned the rather distinctive barns!

Five minutes later I was parked up in Lacam and made a beeline for the first house with pale blue shutters, in which a family was having a lazy Sunday lunch with the door open. The wife came out and said I was mistaken - the Merwin house was further along - and immediately abandoned her meal and walked me round the corner to it. More pale blue shutters awaited me, and a flowerbed full of green spears of vegetation that may have been irises once before they died in the heat. ;) No one was in residence, so I had a good nosey round and even stole some string as a trophy(!) that was serving absolutely no purpose on a gate. 

Having successfully found one hidden Hughes house - or "Hughes-related" house to be more exact, as Ted Hughes was only a guest there - I felt I was on a roll, so when neighbours in the village, a couple also called Hughes, suggested that I might care to take a look at a couple of houses they had once owned, I leapt at the chance. The first was an old watermill between Martel and Creysse in the Lot again (The Moulin de Cacrey), which has its own entry in Wikipedia, with the Hughes actually named as past owners; the second was a town house in Creysse itself.

I had been warned that House No 1 was very off the beaten track, and so it proved...the satnav directed me down a gravel path which I decided to walk along in case there was no room to turn round again in the car when the track emerged from the forest. I finally coincided with the red blob on my phone, and found myself staring at a set of wrought iron gates, firmly padlocked. On an adjacent tree was a sign saying: "Beware, guard dog, do not enter!" I consulted my verbal instructions from the Hughes again, and found to my great delight - having feared for a moment that I had come all that way in vain - that I needed to turn left and follow the gravel track up the hill, before cutting through the woods (ignoring the "dead end" sign!) and stepping over a fallen fence at the end of the trail. (I got rather extensively stung by nettles in the process, but considered the collateral damage well worth it as my sense of anticipation mounted.)

Having followed the instructions to the letter, I was rewarded with the sight of a Narnia-like faerie kingdom of dilapidation and disrepair, that nonetheless had a magical charm to it. The Hughes assured me that they had kept the place in good nick in their day. 

The highlight was the mill pond and cliffs behind.

There's a Japanese quality to that picture...

Give those cherubs some hydrangeas! 

There was also a waterfall (former mill race?) and secret streams running beneath stone bridges.

NB I have since learnt that the Moulin de Cacrey was rented for a few summers before the Hughes bought it by Caroline Conran, longtime wife of Terence Conran (of Habitat fame), and stepmother to Jasper, Terence's son by his previous - and arguably more famous - wife Shirley. Had I known this interesting connection in time, I would have brought out my Jasper Conran Woman perfume to France to wear on the day. ;) Here is my mini-review of the perfume (my fifth post on Bonkers from 2009!).

So from the watermill it was on to Creysse itself, and House No 2, known as The Conciergerie. My instructions said it was near the Mairie (town hall) and a tower, and in fact I went straight to it (also with pale blue shutters, as it turned out). However, I wasn't sure I had definitely got the right place, because I had missed the photographs my friends had sent of it in Messenger(!), so I popped up to the Mairie to double check. The Mairie was only open two half days a week, and not on a Tuesday. 

I asked a neighbour, and she wasn't sure, so knocked on the door of the Dutch couple next door, who weren't in. Then she walked me down the hill to the house of an elderly lady who could be seen having her lunch through an open window. Perhaps surprisingly, she didn't know, and sent me to the village's one hotel to ask the woman with glasses (and only her). I spied the bespectacled woman in a back office and summoned her out, and sure enough she knew exactly where I meant and confirmed that I had been right all along...

I had now run out of Hughes houses, however tightly or tenuously construed, but picking up the earlier theme of dwellings connected with writers, I drove on to the village of Saint-Sozy, where I had read that Virginia Woolf (to whom I am very, very distantly related) had once stayed in the Chateau there in 1937. To my consternation, part of the Chateau complex was on fire when I arrived, and fire engines from all over the region were in attendance. 

A great deal of damage was done to the interiors of two towers and their roofs, and it was completely inappropriate to go wandering up there, picking my way over the firemen's hoses which snaked across the road. 

I contented myself instead with a photograph from a distance, a chat with two ladies who lived opposite and were quite traumatised by the incident, and a white Magnum ice cream, which I ate in the village square with this view.

More blue shutters!

Editor's note: I hesitated about whether to add an apostrophe to "Hughes' Houses" and decided not to in the end. But if anyone would like to put me straight on this point of grammar, I would be glad to have it clarified!

"Saddle up the mare of dreams": Papillon Perfumery Epona review

Last week marked the 10th anniversary of Papillon Perfumery, the artisanal brand founded by elegant epicurean earth mother Liz Moores - whose birthday is today in fact! In that time she has released eight perfumes, and the rectangular 3 x 3 display on her website is clearly crying out to fill the bottom right hand corner with No 9. So when she announced the latest addition to the Papillon stable, Epona, set to be launched on 1st August, I was delighted by the news, not least for reasons of geometrical equilibrium. Equine equilibrium indeed, as Liz explains:

"Epona embodies the cherished memories of my bond with my beloved horse amidst the beautiful English countryside. Inspired by our intimate connection, it captures the essence of long summer days, a warm leather saddle, and the sweet meadow breath of my horse."

When I heard the name of the new perfume, I must admit that I didn't immediately twig to the connection with Liz's horse: it was rather the Spanish town of Estepona that popped into my head, which has the name "Epona" nested within it. For any grammar or maths nerds, I believe this is an example of the somewhat abstruse phenomenon known as "recursion".

Screenshot of the Papillon website!

Further searches of the word quickly revealed that Epona is a Celtic goddess, patron of mares and foals, as well as a character in the Legend of Zelda Nintendo game, and a highly engineered type of horseshoe. ;) So all in all, a very apt choice of name for the new fragrance.

Notes

Leather, Violet, "Saddle Soap Accord", Labdanum, Vetiver, Oakmoss, Petitgrain, "Horse Skin Accord"

Right off the bat you can tell that this is a perfume best appreciated by horse lovers, who will be familiar with "the rich scent of a well-worn saddle", and the saddle soap that is part of the tack cleaning ritual.

I should come right out and say that I am not a horsey person, and if anything am a little afraid of them, along with cows, sheep, and dogs - or for that matter creatures of any size that are capable of launching a surprise attack. Why, even Truffle has become alarmingly bitey of late and I have had to dial back my petting intensity after she narrowly missed a big vein. My diffidence around dobbins, as you might say, goes back to the summer of 1974, when I went pony trekking in Wales on a Scripture Union holiday (of all unlikely auspices!). Within minutes of setting off, my feisty mount cantered down a steep field and promply threw me off. Luckily I was unharmed, but I have never had the urge since to "get back in the saddle".

Source ~ WorthPoint: a plate featuring a JohnTickner drawing (1968)

Now I may not be the ideal person to relate to Epona, but I do have surprising horsey connections. My first cousin-once removed-in-law(!), John Tickner, was the cartoonist for Horse & Hound for some 20 years, and also wrote many books on the themes of country life. In a surprising twist, it turns out that Liz remembers his cartoons from when she was growing up and already a hippophile.

Then there was the old flame who held senior marketing roles in food companies, before turning his back on the gravy train and taking up painting - of race horses. He eventually became a noted equine artist. I'd never have placed a bet on that career change! And there is also the ex-girlfriend of my actual first cousin, who is a sports coach and psychologist teaching NLP techniques to riders.

But despite my own lack of affinity with horses, I was most curious to try Epona, and jumped on the sample Liz sent me as soon as it arrived.

A black pen leaked in my handbag, sorry!

On first application I get a blast of freshly mown grass mixed with a strong leather scent - of the kind you find on the more rugged end of the Spanish handbag spectrum. A friend who sniffed it on me described the smell as "rubbery", which may have been his way of describing the leather note. The arresting opening soon becomes more attenuated: the bracing dart of green disappears, giving way to a softer leather scent mixed with soap. We are definitely in Camay territory now. I found a note to myself that reads: "creamy glowing soft leather and soap". Very beautiful it is too. In the same register as Cuir de Russie, though with more soap.

I must explain that the two other people I have tried Epona on so far - an actively horsey female friend and a chap who has sat on donkeys and elephants in India, which I figured might do as well - were quite different canvases for the scent: on both of them the bright green facet was more noticeable, with longer staying power. They both liked Epona a lot, and in the case of my female friend, it was an absolute epiphany for her. She had previously avoided ALL perfume, dismissing it as "chemically" and allergy-provoking, but the second Epona landed on her skin she knew she was in the presence of luxurious and benign greatness, and was won over. Her partner is now under instructions to buy her a bottle for her birthday - a volte-face the like of which I never thought I'd see. ;)

I did!

As for me, I have continued to bury my nose in my wrist in the hope of detecting the "summer meadows" salvo again, but it seems that my version of the horse has gone back into its stable, where the fresh sappy greenery has been supplanted by straw, and a sort of animalic woodiness that might be the oakmoss or the muddy tones of vetiver. Maybe that is the "horse skin accord" kicking in, which I am obviously not in a position to confirm, but I could well believe it is exactly that. Which reminds me that another waggish friend said he was surprised there was no dung in Epona, prompting me to point him in the direction of L'Artisan's Dzing!. That said, in the drydown there is an alluring stables-cum-barnyard vibe going on - no really, I mean that - which could encompass straw at least. In the far drydown the perfume recedes to a gently soapy whisper, though I thought I could smell a faint trace of vetiver on one wrist. Basically, I think Epona may prove to be another shapeshifter, and you may get a different combination of the leather / soap / fresh greenery / muddy greenery & animalic hints compared to me - or the same combination in a different order. However it reads on your skin, I am confident you will also enjoy the ride! 

In summary - and notwithstanding the fleeting nature of the juicy greenness on me - Epona has leapt to the top of my favourites list, nudging Bengale Rouge and Hera into second and third place on the winners' podium, though I still like them both as much as ever. Hera didn't go quietly as you might imagine, poking Epona's flank with her pomegranate-topped sceptre as she stepped down. As for Bengale Rouge, I guess if this were an actual race, a horse could outrun a cat after all. (Yep, 40mph to her 30mph, I have established, though Truffle may just beat her "species best" when she sees me coming at her with a worming tablet.)

Editor's note: "Saddle up the mare of dreams" is the opening line of a song by Scarlet's Well called "Mid-morning Lily Songs" (video here). I don't expect a single reader to have placed it. ;)

The Inkey List Oat Cleansing Balm review - a squeezy, sensitive skin solution to take the day off

Ceramic bowl by saskiarigby.com

As any Instagram followers may be aware, my profile blurb there reads: "Perfume blogger and industrial market researcher, prone to occasional bouts of travel writing, mindless knitting, and several kinds of dermatitis."

I should update it really, as I retired five years ago(!), though I still often undertake ad hoc research-related favours for friends - currently one to do with the relative merits and facilities of pitches at a motorhome park near Koblenz, whose website is only in German. The rest of my byline remains true, though touch wood I seem to have shaken off one of the three kinds of dermatitis, namely "seborrheic". For the record, I am convinced it was L-glutamine that fixed it by healing my gut in some way, though my GP was dismissive and said that dermatitis naturally comes and goes, so it was more likely just coincidence. Be that as it may, I continue to suffer from allergic and irritant contact dermatitis, especially in the current pollen season. The skin on my upper eyelids goes dry and crinkly / crepey (or more so than it is normally, say!). My eyes feel prickly and my face hot and stinging, prompting me to seek relief by spraying calming canisters of thermal water on it. In extreme cases**, I get redness, creasing and bags under my eyes as well, though not so far this year, thankfully. So while the pollen creates a baseline of irritation half the year, if I come into contact with an aggressive toiletry product as well, all dermatological hell breaks loose!

**For a very scary picture of how bad my skin used to get in summer, click on this post.

Ceramic cup on the right by saskiarigby.com

Now I already have a completely benign product for taking off make up (there will always be tinted sunscreen to deal with, even if my face is too sensitive to bear any more cosmetics than that), namely La Roche-Posay's Toleriane Dermo-Cleanser. It is absolutely bombproof for sensitive and angry skin, and I recommend it unreservedly, ditto their Toleriane Dermallergo Eye Cream. The Toleriane range is routinely endorsed by dermatologists on both sides of the pond, and I can't fault these two products for gentleness and lack of irritating ingredients.

However, for some time now I have been looking for an alternative to the Toleriane cleanser, for no other reason really than I find it a bit chilly when it hits my skin! I realise this must sound a bit illogical, when I have just said I spray my face with cold water to cool it down. But I also use the cleanser year round, and on a cold winter's night it can be tempting to go to bed with a face of slap on, rather than subject my complexion to chilly blobs of white goo...before remembering the dark admonitions of Caroline Hirons, and pulling myself together!

In the past I have enjoyed using the scentless - I flat out refuse to say "iconic", though it is revered as something of a gold standard of cleansers - Clinique Take The Day Off Cleansing Balm, which is white and odourless and reminds me very much of a craft glue we used in primary school, which came in a big tub. Reminds me in a good way, I hasten to add. ;) What I liked about it was the way it melted onto your skin, with no drag factor, and left it feeling silky soft. The downside was the fact that you were continually dipping your (potentially grubby) fingers into the tub, and the last one I owned ended up growing a disconcerting patina of black mould when it was only half used. Obviously, even I had to toss it in the end(!), though had it been a lump of cheese I might have just cut out the offending bits. I think the twin flaws with Take The Day Off were the size of the pot as well as the fact that it came in a pot in the first place rather than a squeezable tube. Had it been half the price and size, I might have been able to use it up in a timely manner, even with frequent finger forays. I have since established that there is a 30ml size for about £12, compared to £20-£34 for 125ml, but it does work out very costly that way, ditto the 15ml travel size for about a tenner! I might go for one of those even so, though the premium cost of the small tubs irks me.

But meanwhile I did a lot of research into well regarded cleansers, comparing different women's magazine polls and the like, and homed in on The Inkey List Oat Cleansing Balm as a possible budget contender, at £12 for 150ml versus £16 for 200ml in the case of the Toleriane (which makes them exactly the same price pro rata).

Source: Amazon

Here are the magic ingredients listed by The Inkey List(!):

• 3% Oat Kernel Oil: a rich, natural oat oil which effectively removes stubborn makeup and SPF whilst hydrating and moisturizing by gently supporting skin’s moisture levels. 
• 1% Colloidal Oatmeal: Helps to reduce the appearance of redness and soothe irritation.

I immediately thought that The Inkey List balm would be kind to my irritable skin on account of the oat-based formulation. I had tried an Aveeno moisturiser in the past that was primarily meant for babies and contained "colloidal oatmeal"; it didn't irritate me, though it was not as hydrating as I had hoped. To this day I don't know what a "colloid" is... Wikipedia to the rescue!

A colloid is a mixture in which one substance consisting of microscopically dispersed insoluble particles is suspended throughout another substance.

Is the oatmeal suspended in something, then? Moving on...I have been using The Inkey List Cleansing Balm for a couple of weeks now, and I can confirm that it is completely safe for sensitive skin - you can't get much more sensitive than mine, I wouldn't have thought, so I feel very confident in recommending it to the public at large. It goes on easily, but doesn't glide as such, or melt into your skin in the way the Clinique Take The Day Off does, or certain oil cleansers I have used in the past. There is a little bit of dragging involved, but not in an overly concerning way. It cleanses perfectly - even lashings of mascara - I wipe it off with a damp cotton wool pad, and it does leave my skin feeling comfortable and moist. Occasionally the balm seems to separate in the tube into a part clear, part opaque gel, but that doesn't bother me unduly either, and it doesn't happen routinely. And of course it is in a tube, which is great for hygiene reasons, and most importantly, it isn't cold on my skin! I can see this being a real winner in winter.

In conclusion, I wouldn't go so far as to say that this balm is my Holy Grail because of the lack of gliding and melting ;), but if (whatever the season) it keeps me from looking like Joe Bugner after he's gone six rounds, it's a keeper! 

"Quoth the raven, 'Not till September at the earliest'", and why April was the (second) cruellest month

Longer term readers may recall my account of first getting the keys to my French house in the depths of winter in early 2019. I clearly remember it was -2C, and I was able to keep yogurt and Camembert on the decking outside my Airbnb in the run up to the big day. The title of that post began: "January is the cruellest month..." so in case anyone is keeping tabs on the league table of meteorological cruelty covered on Bonkers, I thought I'd better qualify my description of this April as the second cruellest, with apologies to T S Eliot. And to Edgar Allan Poe for that matter, of whom more anon.

But yes, I came back to Corrèze for a fortnight, a little later in the spring than on past visits, but still in time to see the wisteria in bloom that encircles my house like a blossomy girdle. And it was absolutely - and most unseasonably - and almost unbearably - freezing! As in very. very cold, not actually freezing, though some of the locals were muttering darkly about temperatures possibly plummeting further. Additionally it rained hard for about a week, so altogether a rather dispiriting take on spring.

The journey down was dry at least, though not without its challenges: I found myself suffering from double vision when I emerged from the Channel Tunnel in Calais, and had to drive all the way to nearly Paris with one eye shut. The resulting tension from such sustained screwing up of ocular muscles provoked a headache on reaching the halfway point in my journey. Also on the way down, an HGV in front of me in the slow lane suddenly lurched into the middle lane, causing a domino effect of three lorries making violent crab-like manoeuvres, all to avoid half an HGV tyre that was bouncing across the carriageway. Their evasive tactics only managed to flick the offending tyre right under my bumper with an almighty thwack! It was like running over a rubberised small child or a large sheep - quite frightening at the time, but miraculously it didn't seem to damage my undercarriage, or not in a way that affected the drive quality, say.

Source: Moonik, via Wikimedia Commons

Then the following day, driving round Paris on the dreaded Périphérique was even more fraught than expected. (For anyone not familiar with it, this road is a cross between the North and South Circular Roads in London and the M25 - the US equivalent of which might be the Sam Houston Beltway.) For I had another shock when the GPS on my phone plunged me right into central Paris...I have never felt so crestfallen to see a tree-lined boulevard, because driving in a congested area with so many signs in close proximity - and an even more tetchy breed of fellow motorist than usual tailgating you at every junction - takes the pressure of urban driving to a whole new level. Eventually, the satnav spat me out on the Pont de Sèvres, and the sight of the Seine lifted my spirits, as I knew I would soon be leaving the city behind me.

But as is customary during my stays here, I wasn't out of the woods yet...! I typically arrive armed with an agenda of jobs, which is invariably overtaken by more pressing crises or unforeseen incidents. I shall take these in turn, in the time-honoured thematic tradition.

Picking holiday dates without consulting the boulangerie

Who would have thought that the bakery in the village would have chosen the exact same dates as my stay for their holiday? No apple doughnuts, oozing custard-filled choux buns or half a rustic baguette for me then. ;( That will teach me. Luckily the local supermarket was well aware of their closure, and ups its own stocks of baked goods during this period, including a very moreish flan. 

Collecting spectacle arms

On the drive down, I was dimly aware that my long distance glasses had become rather loose. Once I was settled at the house, I realised that the problem was much worse than I thought, with the left arm of the frame splayed out at a wild and ungainly angle. It got so I couldn't bend down without their starting to fall off my face, and even when I was upright they would slide a good inch down my nose as fast as I could push them up again. A visit to a local optician was urgently indicated...so on the morning of my first full day here, I went to the biggest one in the small neighbouring town of Objat, a branch of a chain like Specsavers. The optician there took my (black) glasses into a back room, and returned with them a few minutes later, having amputated the offending arm and replaced it with a brown and tan one. I am not the sort to stand on aesthetic ceremony unduly, but he also said that he wasn't very satisfied with his workmanship, and having got back in my car, I could see why. The new arm was also splayed out at quite a dramatic angle, and the slippage cycle started all over again.

So within ten minutes it was on to Optician No 2, who was wearing trendy two-tone hexagonal glasses, a bit like a more muted version of eyewear sported by Elton John. I liked his nerdy manner and sprinkling of technical terms into the conversation as he worked in front of me, the other side of a little hatch. I learnt the French for "tapping" and "screw thread", as he solemnly pronounced all the parts of my spectacles to be "défectueux". I still had confidence that he would do a better job, and so it proved. My latest arm was now at the same angle as the other one, and was mostly black, with the addition of purple and blue streaks(!). I was confident that no one would really notice, and that they would most certainly do for now. A couple of days later, I decided they were in fact still a bit loose after all, and threw myself on the mercy of Optician No 3. She was a very young woman, who looked as though she could only have recently qualified. Be that as it may, she was more than up to the tightening task I entrusted to her, and I emerged feeling that apart from the blue and magenta flecks on the new arm, this was a good result, even if it had taken the combined skills of every optometrist in town. ;)

The log fire that never was

On this trip I brought over two big bags full of paper and cardboard toilet roll inners(!) and 16 bricks, with a view to raising up the grate in the fireplace and lighting a fire in it. Despite the fact that the temperature in my house never went above 13C in the whole fortnight(!), I was not able to use the fire at all, for the simple and most unexpected reason that a pair of jackdaws were building their nest in it. The telltale sign of a pile of sticks in the hearth was waiting for me when I arrived, and I soon "twigged" to the fact that I hadn't left them there, but rather that avian miscreants were steadily chucking them down the chimney - every 30 seconds at the height of their construction fervour. 

Caught in the act!

Their method is decidedly haphazard...a chimney is of course a vertical shaft, and they drop the twigs vertically down it, in the hope that they will catch on a brick on the way down and become lodged horizontally, creating a framework for a nest, which will gradually take shape the more they keep shoving stuff down there. It took the whole of my stay before the twigs stopped coming, and in that time I took five full bags of detritus to the tip. I popped to the Mairie to understand my obligations as a home owner towards these pesky corvids, and was told that I had to wait until the end of the "saison de nidification" (nesting season) in September before I can light a fire or have the nest removed and the chimney swept. Which was a bummer, given how cold it was in the house, but there was nothing to be done. In hindsight, I actually think it was better that I was there during this key time - if I hadn't come till high summer, there would have been a veritable tsunami of debris all over the floor!

Before I left, I rigged up an elaborate combination of dust sheet, newspaper, strategically placed bags for life and bits of cardboard in a bid to intercept any remaining twigs, soot, bird poo, moss, or other chimney projectiles, such as a smashed egg that sadly fell down at one point. I dubbed this my "caca-countering cardboard carapace", on the basis that no one had probably said that exact sentence ever.

NB I did learn an extraordinary amount about jackdaws during my stay, for which the French word is "choucas". They are mostly monogamous, with some amusing exceptions, and go on "synchronised dating flights" with their mates. I think I spotted my pair at it...! Or maybe it is just another twig foraging sortie...

Driving on the wrong (wrong) side of the road

On exiting the tip after my first dumping of twigs, I don't know what possessed me but I turned onto the wrong side of the road, despite the fact that over the past 35 years I have driven on the right side of the road more often than the wrong, as in the left. ;) A van suddenly came round a sharp bend and we both swerved. He honked at me, very understandably, and I was mortified at my error. Then I remembered that jackdaws are thought in some circles to be a portent of early death...and it so nearly could have been. I popped to the church the next day and prayed to Jesus on the cross not to have me done for dangerous driving, even though I had conspicuously sinned against the Code de la Route.

The microbrewery based on an obscure namesake

On the second weekend I decided to check out the market in the optical mecca that is Objat. It was busy with locals and the odd tourist enjoying the sunshine and milling around the many stalls, which sold every kind of fresh produce from cheeses, meat and fish to kiwi fruit shaped like kidneys, giant radishes, and vegetable fritters from the Aveyron. 

There were stalls peddling clothes, wicker baskets, plants, paperbacks, jewellery, and even mattresses made of soya. My eye was caught by a man selling bottles of beer with labels featuring a distinguished looking bearded man on them. I asked him who the chap on the label was, and he explained that it was the first President of Brazil, one Manuel da Fonseca, which happened to be his name too. ;) To commemorate his famous namesake, Objat Manuel set up a brewery and started making a variety of craft beers in different flavours. I got him to pick me out a "normal" one without some strange fruity adjunct, and also asked if I could take a photo of him holding the bottle, given his close personal links with the Brazilian government, albeit of yore. "Only if you will be in it too!", he rejoined, and though neither of us like having our pictures taken in fact (and I hadn't even washed that morning ;)), his son did the honours with my phone. 

A French farçous farce!

Going back to the vegetable fritters, I saw a man making them, and after a quick and delicious taster on a cocktail stick, I promptly bought a couple. I carried on wandering through the market and chanced across another street food stall also doing them, but different varieties, along with paella and other things. When I told the stall owner I had already bought some farçous he looked really shocked, and said: "How come?", and I replied: "From the guy back there", and he clearly had no idea there was any competition. He asked to see inside my box and quizzed me about what vegetables were in them, and generally looked indignant. "Mine have got spinach!" he exclaimed. I hadn't the heart to tell him there was also some spinach in these. I half thought he might go and beat the other man up. Two farçous sellers in a market in a tiny town like Objat is comparable to two sets of British expats in an even tinier village like Juillac called Hughes, which there also are. ;)

A perfume-linked find!

There wasn't much perfume-related content to my time away...I tended to wear pretty much on rotation the decants or small bottles I keep out in France, namely Kenzo Eau de Fleur de Magnolia, Gucci by Gucci, and Ajne Calypso. Then on one of my forays to the local charity shop (black jeans and a cashmere sweater for 6 euros the pair!) I spied the French edition of one of the "Fifty Shades" Trilogy, called Fifty Shades Freed in the English original. Which I happened to remember was translated by our very own Denyse Beaulieu, and sure enough her name was prominently mentioned on the title page. I had a flashback to the launch of L'Artisan's Seville a L'Aube in Covent Garden, where she first told me about her writing commission, and joked about her variegated hair being "fifty shades of grey". Now I haven't read any of the books in English, and wasn't planning to, and I may never read this one either, but of course it came home with me... In fact all three books in this picture were thrown in for free with my other bargain purchases.

The funfair that was no fun

On my last night in France, at the halfway point in Senlis, north of Paris, I chanced upon a funfair. I promptly regressed about 55 years and, risk taker that I am, went on a ghost train on my own. As in no one else on it, not just no companion. ;) It was terrifying...! They played the noise of a chainsaw and somebody poked me in the back - an actual person or a mechanised scarecrow maybe, but definitely a big figure right behind me wielding a sharp pointy implement. I thought what if he/it runs amok/malfunctions and stabs me properly? Later in the (mercifully short) ride a huge sinister-looking clown waved sparklers next to my head, while laughing maniacally. Whatever possessed me? If I want to be scared witless, give me the Périphérique in rush hour any day. ;)