Let bygones be Byzance: a tale of two house clearances, featuring a guest post - and a surprise spot of rapping! - by my (late) mother

Travel poster by Harry Riley

A few months ago, Liz Moores of Papillon Perfumery kindly sent me a partial bottle of Rochas Byzance, remembering my nostalgic association of the scent with my mother, albeit for reasons upon which all bona fide perfumistas would frown. The full story may be found here, on the remote offchance that there are still any readers who have managed to escape my repeated references to it(!). Now hopefully Liz won't mind my mentioning that she recently celebrated her 47th birthday, while my mother would have turned 97 in May. The 50 year difference in their ages I find oddly portentous, I don't know why, and despite the immense cultural changes that have occurred between 1920 and 1970 I feel sure they would have got on famously, not least through a shared love of food - and drink (which in my book is A Good Thing ;) ).  And like Liz, my mother was a free spirit, and managed to turn the heads of locals in Halkidiki on a solo cycling holiday at the age of 76.

The trigger for this post was the recent sudden death of an old work associate and neighbour, who lived round the corner from the house I used to share with Mr Bonkers. This lady's only blood relative, a cousin in the South of England, rang me up the other day to ask if I was coming to the funeral, and mentioned in passing that at some point he would need to come up again to sort his cousin's house out. I told him I knew just what that was like, having done two 'long distance' house clearances myself for each of my parents (who didn't live together in later life). As I am local, I offered to help this chap out on the ground, should he need it when the time comes.

And that got me thinking about a remarkable house clearance that my mother carried out, which led to her writing a feature about the experience that was aired on Woman's Hour in 1968. Her voice on the tape is so cut glass as to be hilarious - almost as royal-sounding as the Queen! I am sorry you can't press a button on here to fully appreciate her plummy tones. I have no recall of my mother ever talking like that, I might add - and I was nine at the time, so was old enough to notice such things - maybe she was putting on her poshest voice specially for the BBC. ;)

So here is the transcript of her broadcast instead - Mother's 'guest post' if you will.

"Do it! You should just see the muddle. But two days were all that I could spare away from the family. So in spite of the warnings, off I went on the plane to Exeter, to sort out the effects left by Aunt Ina. The last time I had seen my aunt was over thirty years earlier. On that occasion I was fifteen years old, suddenly orphaned by my mother's death. At a grisly meeting I sat mute while Aunt Ina and three of my uncles discussed the question: 'What shall we do with Peggy?'. I think what increased the grisliness of the meeting was that it took place in the refreshment room of Victoria Station. Almost as bad as being found in a handbag on a platform for the Brighton line. But the line was immaterial, and so was the refreshment room, except that it was there that my aunt said that she could neither have me to live with her nor contribute to my upkeep - and that was the last I saw of her.

As it happened we got on well together at the meeting, and though we corresponded at intervals, I have never seen her again. Now she had made me her residual legatee and I had to sort out the residue. And although I had been warned, when I was actually in my aunt's house I was taken aback by the task that confronted me, for it seemed that my aunt was eccentric in that she could never throw anything away. Drawers and cupboards were full to overflowing. I could hardly walk around the sitting room. The solicitor said: 'When I went to see your aunt, she'd be sitting at the table, and she'd simply push with both hands until all the things on it would mount into a hill at the back, and then she'd have a space on which to write.'

It was strange getting to know my aunt after she was dead, but one can't go through a person's possessions without having a pretty complete portrait of the person who possessed them. No one could live in such confusion without having a total disregard for housewifely pursuits. The drawers revealed such things as empty cigarette cartons, half empty boxes of forgotten sweets, Christmas cards from way back. There were also papers on how to win on football pools and how to develop a system of betting on horses. Which is odd, for the second thing I discovered about my aunt was that she was quite detached about money. In every drawer I emptied there was money: half crowns, sixpences, even farthings. All with that odd feeling to the touch that long unused coins have. There were pound notes in old purses - or just left in the pages of an old notebook. There were coins in the kitchen drawers and pound notes in the pockets of her coats. But the crowning discovery was a roll of eight five pound notes lying behind her bed. It's odd how money found in these circumstances doesn't feel quite real, just paper. I suppose because it's in a sort of limbo, neither earned nor given.

I had a bonfire going for two days steadily, burning letters, old clothes, magazines, newspapers and photographs. Ah, those photographs...my aunt had obviously been a keen photographer and there were thousands of photographs: groups of happily smiling people who meant nothing to me. There were some of my mother and father that I'd not seen before and I was glad to have these. But I felt sad as I saw those records of her happy days going up in flames. There's no point in keeping meaningless snaps. And yet I felt ruthless in destroying a tangible past. And ruthless I had to be to clear out this mess in two days. But there were moments when I had to pause, when I dug up real bits of treasure - to me at any rate. I began to see the reason for the lack of domesticity as I found evidence of the adventurous life my aunt had led in her youth.

A small black book, closely written, I discovered to be the log book of a small boat in which she and two men - one her first husband - tried to circumnavigate Africa in the days before journeys in small boats were commonplace. And then a yellowing sheet from a Sunday Herald published in 1925, in which she describes life among the Rif in Spanish Morocco, where apparently she was the only white woman. Exciting enough, I thought, until I came across another from The Times of that year which told how a beautiful English woman known as 'Lovely Nellie' had been held hostage, as her husband and another man had been caught gun running.

How I wish then she was there to tell me of the adventures only partially revealed by these tantalising snippets! She obviously made friends easily judging by her foreign correspondence, and she was popular with the local people, although she was reserved and did not speak of herself much. She had an inventive mind, and I came across draft inventions she planned to have patented. What else did I discover about my aunt? She loved earrings and brooches and makeup. She collected  stamps and cigarette cards, pens and boxes of matches. It wasn't until four o'clock on the second day that I finally cleared the space in her bedroom and gathered together the things I wanted sent to me in Northern Ireland. Things I knew she wanted me to have: a Japanese rosewood chair that belonged to my grandmother, some Japanese vases, and some slices of family history which I shall enjoy piecing together. I felt then that I'd come through a long, dark tunnel. It had been a chastening experience in several ways. Chiefly I'm thinking of all the lumber one accumulates over the years - that someone might have to do this for me. In a modified way, it's true, but do I really need all the stuff that's in my attic? And are all the letters in my desk really worth keeping?

But chastening and exhausting though this experience was, it had its rewarding side, and I felt I could close my two days in Devon by making an announcement: 'Gained posthumously, an aunt'."

I can picture some of the treasures from Great Aunt Ina's house - little lacquered tables and sets of drawers, all manner of jewellery, a ceremonial sword and a scimitar, one or both of which are now in my brother's loft. And I 'inherited' a lifesize toy cat with white fur. At least I hope it was a toy - it was worryingly realistic, I do remember that...If I still had it, I could make it stand sentry at the back door, to scare Tootsie away. ;)

Now I have just looked up Ina in our family tree and found out some other interesting titbits about her. She got married to her first husband, a shipper and ship builder, in 1922, when she was 22 and he was 54! One of the witnesses was named as F C Voysey, eerily close to C F Voysey, but surely that would be too much of a coincidence, even though he was living nearby at the time...

Source: Wikimedia Commons (SpudGun67)

 Also, Ina and her first husband lived at 118, Long Acre, in Covent Garden, a hop and a skip away from Bloom! Where it seems Dame Margot Fonteyn also lived, but not at the same time, and doubtless not in the same flat. ;) Then Husband No 1 died in February 1930, and Ina was married again by June of that year! Husband No 2 was only 48, and she was 31. Ina clearly liked older men, though at least they are getting progressively younger with each union.

What else has come to light? Ina was one of only three female members of the Royal Southampton Yacht Club in 1927. (Mother donated Ina's copy of the Rule Book from that year to the club in 1985, prompting the reply below from the club's secretary, which probably isn't legible, I know.) To be a member as a woman in those days you had to own your own yacht, and Ina's was a 50-foot long wooden sailing yacht called Silver Crescent, built in 1886. The secretary adds that out of 800 club members, there are 80 women now, so it sounds like even back in the '80s, the glass hull was well on its way to being broken.

And I have to smile reading the broadcast back, because it was me of course that got the gig of sorting out Mother's effects after her death. I immediately rehomed Ferraby, the plush duck, and Pinky, the towelling pig. The latter had been sitting in her wing back chair ever since she was hurriedly taken into hospital, waiting patiently for her return.

Pinky's new chair in Stafford

Then Mother's paperwork was contained in a single concertina file, and fortuitously her bank account had just enough left in it to cover her funeral. The only part of the house where she had exhibited 'Aunt Ina-like behaviours' was in the kitchen...the drawers were crammed full of old corks and buttons and safety pins and pennies and broken pottery and oozing tubes of Savlon - and much more in that vein - while the pantry was a treasure trove of pre-1982 spices. This being...ahem...1999. But it was a privilege to tie up the loose ends of my mother's life, and I didn't begrudge the triage of a single odd or end. Disposing of someone else's belongings is a weighty responsibility, characterised by a myriad of quick fire decisions that require a judicious blend of empathy and - as Mother herself says - ruthlessness.

And what about the bottle of Byzance I had given mother so thoughtlessly three years previously? Not a trace. I did, however, find this bottle of Opium in her sponge bag, that has morphed 18 years later into a rich and treacly concoction, while smelling by no means 'off' to my nose. I have dated it to the early 90s, which sounds plausible. I don't know how Mother came by it - a gift from a friend, her bridge partner, an impulse purchase in Boots, like me with the Rochas - who knows? It's well over half empty though, suggesting she did rather like it.

And this story would not be complete without a mention of Liz's rescue hen, Peggy, whom she kindly named after my mother. I knitted Peggy a jumper when she first arrived at Papillon Animal Sanctuary, to keep her warm until her threadbare plumage grew back. And I am pleased to note that Peggy the chicken also likes a tipple. ;)

In a bizarre turn of events, ex-Mr Bonkers turned my mother posthumously into a co-rapper in this song, along with Birmingham-based rapper, Tijhs Jordan. She really gets a groove on, and if you listen very closely, you may just be able to hear her repeat the phrase 'a small black book', interspersed with Tijhs's own take on Ina's travelling exploits. I'd say he is 'riffing' off them, but that might be a pun - and an 'f' - too far. Oh, and actually, you can get an idea of her plummy voice in the song!

Link to the track ('Hope/The River') here (and further background on it here - it is a partly original (very original!!), partly cover / tribute piece).

The last artefact I came across relating to my great aunt was this copy of a letter sent to my mother in April, 1959, in which Ina hopes that her 'forthcoming event' goes smoothly. Why, that would be my own arrival, a month later!

And although there is mention of Ina liking makeup and jewellery, of perfume there is nary a word. With her smoking habit (maybe she even had an actual habit - and cap - like Rachael Potts' husband Tony?!), and love of betting - not to mention her swashbuckling seafaring persona - I could see Ina in Tabac Blond, Habanita or Cuir de Russie, perfumes all squarely dating from the time she was...er...busily dating - and getting hitched!

Finally, here is a photo of Mother's old house in Swindon, which is currently on the market, I see. It was my house first in fact, before I sold it to her when I moved to Stafford. Those are the very shelves I put up in 1986! (I may have had some help.)

Fairy bread and Cosmopolitans: An (Ubar-fabulous) evening with Portia Turbo at Perfume Lovers London (28.1.16)

This Thursday marked the eighth anniversary of my falling down the rabbit hole, ironically by idly googling a few perfumes a friend wore that I didn't like, and observing that they had a number of notes in common. One google led to another...eventually to fragrance wheels and pyramids and samples, from where it was a short bunny hop to full blown mania, an international network of perfumista friends, and a collection of 70 bottles and counting. Hopefully counting down, but last week's eBay coup isn't exactly heading in the right direction. Anyway, it seems fitting that I marked the occasion by popping down to London to attend the much awaited Perfume Lovers London meet up, featuring flamboyant Aussie drag queen, Portia Turbo of Australian Perfume Junkies. She has unfortunately had to 'go down a -Gear' following a nonsensical Facebook ruling on using real names, but Portia Turbo is still a pretty wicked name.

The obligatory outfit crisis

As you may recall, I invariably have an outfit crisis before any kind of important event, and this PLL meet up was no exception. In the end I gave up on reconciling my twin aims of smartness and warmth, and went for smartness. However, this was undermined somewhat by the stomach I had developed in the past week after consuming an entire bucket of Maltesers, which was unfortunately showcased by my aptly named 'dinner trousers'. Or 'after dinner choc binge trousers' to give them their full name. I only noticed this problem protuberance when I saw the photos of me from the night, and in hindsight would have been better off with something a bit more floaty and forgiving.

Me and Portia - lost a tum and gained Angela Merkel!

Forgotten things

And it is also traditional for me to forget something on such occasions: this time it was my watch, an umbrella, money, and one of the five coupons which collectively comprised my train ticket - I must have failed to scoop it up from the vending machine. As luck would have it, the next customer retrieved the coupon, handed it to a member of staff, who gave it to the conductor of the train I was on, who proceeded to walk through all the carriages looking for its owner, which could be ascertained by marrying up the serial numbers with my other coupons. What a fine example of proactive customer service that I didn't even know I needed! Or not until I attempted to travel home and found my ticket was invalid without that missing coupon...

The welcome committee

I was met at Euston (the novelty! the Brief Encountery-ness of it all!) by Val the Cookie Queen of APJ and Rachael Potts, both examples of that remarkable Venn diagram intersection of fumehead and fellow Monochrome Set fans. Rachael - whom I was meeting for the first time - immediately endeared herself to me by saying that I had a 'grown up voice' and was 'enigmatic'. (This may have meant in practice that I was unable to give any advance platform information, or even let her know where my train was coming from.) The three of us quickly hooked up with Tara of A Bottled Rose, Val's husband Chris, Val's travelling therapist, Dr Fox, and Lady Jane Grey, who had just flown in from a business meeting near Geneva! Some of us went to grab an impromptu bite near the venue, before joining the rest of our (predominantly German speaking ;) ) party at the venue. This was accessed by a very steep flight of stairs, which you would not wish to negotiate in either direction if you were a few Cosmopolitans to the wind.

Val, looking lively in leopardskin

Quirky and top notch scram

Yes, before moving on to an account of the event proper, the refreshments deserve a word of special commendation. I don't recall the full spread, but I did clock unwrapped Penguins, the Aussie delicacy known as Fairy Bread (dainty triangles of bread and butter sprinkled with hundreds and thousands - or 'sprinkles' for any US readers who don't mind a spot of repetition), some kind of twizzly extruded snacks and the biggest cashew nuts I have ever seen. If I hadn't just eaten a sizzling bowl of bibimbap I would have made light work of those, I can tell you. And even though the jug of ready mixed Cosmopolitans had been drunk by the time I investigated the options, I was impressed by the fact that this 'fun, fruity cocktail', beloved of the characters in Sex and The City had been on offer. It set the tone for Portia's fun, fruity talk no less!

We didn't have the teal variety! Source: Wikipedia

Portia's outfit - worth the ticket price in itself

I am not sure there is such an expression as 'a destination outfit' as there is a 'destination wedding' - you know, where the bride and groom fly to the Caribbean and combine the ceremony and honeymoon under one petal-strewn poolside pergola - but I would pay good money just to go and see Portia in all her glamorous finery. The coruscating talk was a bonus. So, starting at the bottom, Portia was shod in clear perspex peep-toe shoes with tottering 'f*** me' heels, to the terrifying vertiginousness of which her stretchy ankle bandage may have been testament. Next came a pair of very pale flesh coloured tights on her shapely legs, topped by a baby doll nightie in some suitably - or unsuitably depending on your stance on such things - diaphanous material, which made an interesting counterpoint with Portia's newly grown hipster beard. Well, new since I saw her last, which is a while ago (see outfit crisis link above!). And then came the crowning glory - Portia's headpiece, which I can best describe as a sparkly golden whelk. It was truly magnificent and looked quite heavy, but she is a real trouper, I sense, and has doubtless been weighed down by even more elaborate headgear in her time.

Scent of a (clatter of remarkable) women from down the ages

So finally, on to the event itself, which kicked off about 7.15pm 'We are starting a bit late', quipped Portia, 'because some of you can't afford watches!' (Can't afford - or can't remember to bring them, I thought to myself.) The session was relaxed, interactive, completely hilarious and occasionally blue or sweary in places. A winning combination of ingredients in my book.

Kirk, Val, Chris and Pia

Now I know that Tara will be reporting on the night for APJ itself, and she is noted for being as meticulous as a court reporter in her note taking. Consequently, I shall not attempt to present a full account of Portia's talk, for my own scribbly jottings would fall woefully short. Instead, I will endeavour to give a flavour of the content, which centred around a list of twelve formidable female figures from history - mostly, but not all benign, it should be said - whom Portia had matched with a scent which she felt summed up their character / persona. Blotters of the fragrances in question were distributed amongst us so we could all experience Portia's suggestion. The audience meanwhile had been randomly assigned fabric strips with the names of one of the women featured, and were asked to think what we would associate that person with ourselves. Googling was permitted, should anyone be a bit nonplussed by the name they had been allocated!

So without further preamble - though you knew there would have to be some, this being Bonkers ;) - here is a quick romp through a selection of the featured women from history, their assigned scents, and any comments from the audience. I should point out that the titbits I have homed in on in the 'Famous for' category by no means give an exhaustive picture of that individual's lifetime achievements, hehe.

CLEOPATRA

Famous for: Marrying her brother and creating the Syrian army - 'which was just as f***ed then as it is now'. Cleopatra apparently had a good body, but a 'face like a foot'. She painted her skin with lead to make her face whiter, and drank a pearl dissolved in vinegar in a bet with Mark Antony. (My notes were a bit shaky at this point, but Googling is permitted, as I say.)

Ubar by Amouage

NB (I chose this as my sample to take home at the end of the night, because I know it is a particular favourite of Undina's, and thought that after my recent rapprochement with Salome, I was ready to give this 'big hitter' perfume another go).

Audience suggestions: White Diamonds, Poison, Onda Extrait (no prizes for guessing who that was!), and good old plain ass's milk. Or even asses' milk, as it would take a couple to fill a bath.

Source: Pinterest

SAINT JOAN OF ARC

Famous for: Leading the French to victory against England in the Hundred Years' War and being burnt at the stake. ;(

Celtic Fire by Union(!)

Audience suggestions: I didn't say so, but Brulure de Rose flitted into my mind - and promptly out again! I think it was in connection with poor Joan that Lila came up with Jovoy Paris's La Liturgie des Heures, because of its being an incense scent. There was much ribald discussion of the existence of the Marmite accord that is meant to be in Celtic Fire, but Grant Osborne has seen it in the vial, so that settled the matter.

Source: Wikipedia

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

Famous for: Being a nurse in the Crimean War and having the idea of sanitising hospital wards and washing patients' clothes.

Sharp by Andrea  Maack

NB (My review of Sharp may be found here. I liked it best out of Andrea Maack's range, not least because it had no discernible metal note, though arguably that would not have been out of place in a scent associated with field hospitals.) Sharp reminded Portia of SL Laine de Fer, and some loft? insulation material the name of which I didn't catch, but which sounded humorous.

Audience suggestions: Dettol(!), Estee Lauder White Linen, and something else I have failed to write down.

Source: Roullier White

TZ'U HSI

Famous for: Being the Chinese Emperor's concubine, Dowager Empress and Regent of China, and having unfeasibly long nails, which knock the entire cast of TOWIE's talons into a cocked hat. Tz'u Hsi also oversaw the establishment of schools, the reorganisation of the army - and the suppression of opium cultivation.

YSL Opium (vintage) - haha!

Audience suggestions/comments: Rachael mentioned that she once got off her head sniffing Opium in the 1970s during a bout of flu. 'While we were all snorting poppers!' joked Portia. Given the age Portia would have been in the '70s it is sincerely to be hoped not. ;)

KATHARINE HEPBURN (note spelling - I speak as a 'not quite fellow' Kathryn)

Famous for: A stellar Hollywood career spanning 60 years, and legendary cheekbones. Portia said: 'I ate my way out of that look, but I like to think I have some of her poise'. Based on how well Portia was managing in those killer heels, despite a dodgy ankle, I would say a resounding yes to that.

JHAG Gentlewoman

Portia joked: 'A lot of perfumistas need to be challenged every time they breathe in, but I just need to smell good!' I liked this soapy yet crisp orange-y cologne myself and would say 'Amen' to that sentiment!

Audience suggestions: FM Le Parfum de Therese (ie something a bit more spiky and angular, I infer - more African Queen, if you will), Jicky, Dior Eau Sauvage ('Ooh yes,' exclaimed Portia, 'she would have bathed in the s***!'), Miss Dior and Chanel No 5.

Source: triviatribute.com

And finally, I would like to include this one, because of my personal connection to the scent Portia chose for her...

ELIZABETH TAYLOR

Famous for: Her magnetic violet eyes, continually marrying and unmarrying Richard Burton, and being in a ton of iconic films, including Cleopatra (see above!). Her face is considerably more beautiful than a foot, it must be said.

Rochas Byzance

NB This was the perfume I associate with my mother because of her not wearing it, and which gave rise to this elegaic post about her, which some readers may remember, and which is the piece of writing anywhere on Bonkers which means the most to me. I describe Byzance in my review as 'A retro soapfest clouded in mystery'.

Audience suggestions: Tara came up with FM Lipstick Rose, which spookily enough was the exact same scent that popped into my mind, on account of its cosmetic boudoir vibe and violet connection!

Portia having a swishy skirt moment.

So yes, these are only half the people featured. I was assigned Oprah Winfrey, for example, and 'channelled' Michael Kors as my suggestion, which is weird as I am not sure I have even smelt it - that's why I say 'channelled', because it came to me just like that! Portia, meanwhile, picked YSL M7 for her. And higher up the post I may of course be seen posing with Angela Merkel, who was teamed with a Byredo scent. Oh, and I would just like to mention that I had heard of the oceanographer and explorer Sylvia Earle, but only because there was a programme on her on Radio 4 the other week.

Portia, Val, Tara and Sabine (of Iridescents)

Then after the talk there was the usual high octane milling around and having lightning conversations with fellow fumeheads - much like speed dating, indeed, but without the dating part.

Rachael and me

This was a good opportunity to hand over a pair of wrist warmers I had knitted as a commission for Val, and there was also the usual exchanging of little goody bags. Oh, and of course I had to take away one of Val's brownies. Eating it on the train home was (not for the first time, indeed) a way of proving to myself that that night of unalloyed fabulousness, razzle-dazzle, and all round not-quite-family entertainment really happened. Yep, Portia, you are still a caution and a hoot and a half, and long may you continue to be so!

Brownie plus coupons reunited!

Lenthéric Tweed: Am I Fabric-ating False Memories Of My Mother?

My mother would have been 92 this year. That is old, but by no means unusual these days: my aunt is 91 and my dad's cousin just turned 92, and celebrated by selling her life's work of paintings in one go (76 at the last count!).

But sadly, my mother died 13 years ago today, when she was 78. She had really hoped to make it to 80, but it was not to be. I miss her as keenly now as if it were yesterday. In a post in 2010 on Bonkers, I wrote about my mother's death and reflected back on her "scented past" - pretty threadbare basically - and not helped by a thoughtless Christmas gift of Rochas Byzance from me. I thought it worth linking back to it on this, her "anniversary", as Bonkers was even smaller back then, and some readers may have missed it. Apart from anything, it is notable for being a rare example of a Bonkers post written in a sombre and largely unfacetious tone.

Since I wrote it, I sought out a purse spray of Lenthéric Tweed, which is the perfume I think she wore of her own accord. I certainly remember seeing a chequered tin of the talcum powder, and had a notion that my mother also owned the perfume. I am not sure of the exact vintage of the one I managed to find on Ebay - it may not be quite old enough - but it certainly doesn't smell contemporary. It has that forbidding, rather manly, chypre quality to it of its Lenthéric stable mate, Style, or perhaps of Cabochard. I say "chypre" - Fragrantica describe the base as "oriental" - and looking at the notes it does seem to have a foot in both camps. I couldn't find a single "proper" review of Tweed, which in itself may be significant.

Top notes - bergamot, cinnamon and geranium
Middle notes - ylang-ylang, jasmine, lavender and orange flower
Basenotes - oakmoss, patchouli, sandalwood, benzoin, vanilla and vetiver

Hmm, the notes do look a bit austere to me. I was going to say "dog's breakfast", but that might sound disrespectful. I sprayed it on last night and again this morning, and it wasn't for me. I could imagine it being the signature scent of a very strict maths mistress with her hair scraped back into a bun, if she wore any perfume at all. Though that wasn't my mother at all - quite the opposite. I don't mean she couldn't count or anything - I am talking about the severity aspect. There again, Tweed does smell outdoorsy and a little masculine, and my mother loved the rugged scenery, rough fabrics and sludgy colours of the West of Ireland, which I think it does rather conjure up. And I am probably being unfair to it - Tweed is just of its time, and that style was simply too green / sharp / mossy for my taste.

So I don't really want to associate Tweed with my mum after all. Or maybe just the talcum powder, which I think was innocuous enough. And nor do I want to associate her with Rochas Byzance particularly. And when I cleared out her house I also found a bottle of Opium, which still smells good today. How did she come by that? I will never know.

So I guess I will just have to accept that I have this passionate perfume interest now, and I also have many happy memories of my mother. However, good - and genuine - perfume memories of her may forever elude me.


Photo of tweed fabric from harristweedshop.ocm, other photos my own