Bonkers does Brighton, Bognor, Bosham and Beyond

Bosham Quay - source: hampshirecam.co.uk

Okay, firstly that title is a slight case of poetic licence...  It should read Hove, Bognor, Chidham and Beyond, the beyond being Sidmouth, but it was worth sacrificing a little geographical accuracy on the altar of alliteration for the sake of a mile or two in either direction.  Yes, I am off in the morning on a lightning tour of various friends and relatives on the south coast.  The lynch pin of my itinerary will be a gathering of the Musson clans near Chichester to mark the occasion of my cousin's wife's 60th birthday.  Her signature scent of Pure White Linen is (somewhat tangentially) featured in this odd post from three years ago. Odd but strangely timely, as a heatwave is also a prominent theme, along with ex-Mr Bonkers' "delicate ecosystem".

But going back to the birthday party for a moment, apparently we are meant to wear a hat - "the sillier the better" - the invitation states.  So I have a choice of a bath hat, an angora beret (my personal favourite, as it is appreciably less silly if one must wear woolly headgear in high summer), and a sort of Peruvian chunky knit number with ear flaps.  This striking item cost me a fiver in Asda Living - I have never worn it and it is strictly "earmarked" for long solitary wintry cycle rides (that obviously never happen).  Plus I have a floaty straw hat that would look completely normal, but which would probably be excluded on those very grounds.

UPDATE:  I have tried on all the hat contenders, and it is just too hot to wear any of them, barring the straw one at a pinch (and a scratch).  If the hat-wearing rule is rigorously enforced, I propose to wear it the wrong way round as a small concession to the spirit of the event.

Mosman the koala modelling the least worst hat backwards

UPDATE 2: Or....what about this idea?  The insertion of Max Rat, my sometime travelling companion on overseas work trips, cunningly transforms the hat into a 'rat's nest'.  Which would be novel!

Rose is a Rose is a Rose is a Rose Perfume - or is it?

Complete with cut out 'V' on the leaf!

This week marks my first anniversary in the new Bonkers Towers.  It has been an eventful year, what between the hydra-headed woodworm, the broken windows and dodgy boiler, the lack of work for half the year and the sadly departed cat.  But there has been much to celebrate too - some strides have been made on the decorating front, and I now have a collection of herbs in pots on the patio. The other thing I love about the garden is that you never know what is going to pop up next, though now that the year has come full circle it should have yielded up all its secrets.  I have especially enjoyed the many varieties of rose that I inherited.  Following our meeting in Brussels last August, I promised Victoria of Bois de Jasmin that I would devote a post to the roses in my garden, but I may have been distracted by Charlie Bonkers' illness around that time, and then the moment passed, the roses went over, and I forgot about it.

But this year the display has been so varied and colourful that I decided to photograph each one before it was too late.  I also gave myself the challenge of sniffing them all in a bid to match any of their scents with a specific rose perfume in my collection.  Or failing that, just to come up with my own take on what roses smell of in their natural habitat.

Before I set to it, a post on Bois de Jasmin entitled The Ultimate Rose Perfume came to mind, in which guest writer Suzanna singles out two scents in particular as being 'true' replicas of roses:

Source: aromatka.ru

"For its realistic interpretation of fresh roses, Creed’s Fleur de Thé Rose Bulgare has little competition.  After a somewhat perfume-y and oddly “green” start, this one is unmatched rose verisimilitude with green tea over a gently salty ambergris and musk base. Now discontinued, or pulled from production, perhaps to return from the Creed vault at a later date.

Far less expensive – and even more streamlined – is the drugstore icon Tea Rose from The Perfumer’s Workshop.  I’ve had a bottle in my wardrobe forever.  Tea Rose smells of rose oil and little else."

I have tried the former, but have long since used up my decant.  Even though my memory is hazy, I do recall it being a very fine rendition of an actual rose. Tea Rose, however, continues to elude me, with The Perfumer's Workshop being a US brand.

So...over the course of a few days I went about systematically sniffing all the roses in my garden and recording my thoughts.  There were some surprises along the way as you will see.  Oh, and I should point out that I have absolutely no clue what any of them are called, hence why I favoured a Gertrude Stein quote for the title of this post over..er...something like 'The Name of The Rose', say.  Because in Stein's view, the essential identity or quiddity of the flower is in no way diminished by its lack of a name.  As in avant-garde turn of the century poetry, so in my garden!  Okay, that's a complete cop out, but moving on...here is a summary of my main learning points:

Dark red roses don't smell at all!

Or at least my particular varieties don't, and they are a far cry from the hothouse flowers that are so often thrust in your face at the end of a nice meal in an Indian restaurant:  'Thornless, odourless, soon-to-be-lifeless rose for the lady?'

The above specimen is strangely reminiscent of a red cabbage in cross-section, wouldn't you say?

And here's a picture of the 'control', which was just as scent-free as its friend the other side of the garden.  If you know of a scented red variety - and I have no doubt there must be some! - do tell!

Some pinks are more tasteful - and odiforous - than others

This pink and white number had a very faint scent, which doesn't really warrant any attempt on my part to describe it, however it scores points for variegation.  This is the shade of pink that makes me think of the more unwearable end of the Rimmel lipstick spectrum.  'Get the London look!' urges Kate Moss, the face of Rimmel's ad campaign.  Not unless I was going to a fancy dress party specifically themed around unflattering lipstick shades.  Hmm, that might be fun, actually...

Peachy pink and yellow roses have the most beautiful smell of all

Though not OF peaches, I hasten to add.  I am including in this category peach with red tips, peachy vermilion, peachy pink (like the one pictured at the top of the post) and peachy leaning to yellow.  And the more tasteful shades of pink that aren't strictly peachy.

This one scores points for variegation too, but has the most incredible smell.  How to describe it?  I am not sure I could do justice in words to the scent on its own, not least because the experience of smelling a rose is inextricably bound up with other senses - the visual appreciation of its colour and the caressing touch of its petals. And oddly, rose petals always feel cool to the nose, even on a hot day.

Okay, here goes...The scent itself is 'perfumey' - I know, I know, that is rather a lame descriptor, but it is! Tender.  Delicate.  Fresh.  Honeyed, but never cloying.  Soft and silky.  Heady.  Feminine.  Happy.  Pure. Yielding.  No, it's no good - I give up!  But if you can think of other good adjectives, please do leave a comment with your suggestions.

And here is what I take to be the same variety again, blushing at my compliments about its delicious scent.

This one was so tall I couldn't actually reach up to sniff it, but I am willing to bet it would have smelt just as amazing!

The only rose in my garden which smells like a perfume I own is...

This yellow one!  IUNX Eau Frappée perfectly captures the scent of yellow roses crossed with lemon sorbet.  It is astonishingly refreshing and lifelike.

When it comes to budding, some shapes are more...ahem...aesthetic than others

The above rose illustrates the epitome of a bud opening in a socially acceptable manner.

This rose, notwithstanding its magnificent scent, looks a little too Georgia O'Keeffe - or do I mean Tiny Tears? - for its own good.

Roses are an object lesson in 'blowsy'

When I was at school, we had a number of very strict school rules, including not wearing 'technicoloured underwear' with our uniform, not wearing stripy socks ('the mark of a harlot'), and not loitering outside the Astoria Picture House, where boys from the neighbouring school might attempt to 'wrest' our scarves from us.  Which we took to be a euphemism.  Additionally, although it was the era of Farah Fawcett curls and Carmen heated rollers, we were not allowed to 'titivate' our hair into 'blowsy styles'.  Ever since, I have been drawn to a tousled rumpled look wherever it manifests itself - Alexa Chung's hair, slouchy socks, and roses of a certain age.

Working the blowsy look.

Blowsier!

Blowsiest!  Oh, okay, more dying than blowsy, and it is a fine line.  Which leads me neatly to the final part of my rose investigations, which was to see what happens to the scent as the petals finally shrivel up and go brown.

Over the course of a couple of days, I continued to resniff these dead petals at intervals - I know they look like the shocking pink variety higher up the post, which had next to no odour, but trust me, this isn't that one. Initially I would get whiffs of their normal scent interspersed with a musty, dried up smell, plus a hint of indoles, and over time the ratio of mustiness increased till the perfumey scent had totally disappeared.  The petals never got horribly indolic at any point, though I repeated the same exercise with some magnolia petals I found on a tree in the next street and they were off the scale indolic-tangy-phantom ylang-ylangy!  Quite disgusting in the finish.

So there you have it - one rose perfume identified, and a few general colour-scent correlations tentatively advanced - but any horticulturally minded readers are most welcome to shoot these down.  And what better way to round this post off than with a picture of a rose (or two)!

Oh all right then, here's another one!

'Eau de Wiggo': 4160 Tuesdays Time To Draw The Raffle Numbers, And Bandage Girl Clare's Gallant Ride

Perfume and its copiously stamped and cheerfully spotted box

My friend Clare - owner of the perfumista pooch Meg, who narrowly missed becoming a calendar bitch - is mad on cycling.  No, really, she is completely obsessed with it, going out at every available opportunity to cover 20 miles here and 35 miles there.  She has taken to loitering in Lidl to take advantage of their occasional random deliveries of budget cycling kit, of which she assures me one can never have enough. Given that Clare is a loyal Waitrose shopper - and wouldn't normally be seen dead in a retail outlet that sets the merchandising bar so low as to sell stuff out of its cardboard outers turned sideways, if at all - that gives you as good an indication as any that the woman is bonkers about biking.  In addition to this, Clare is a massive fan of Sir Bradley Wiggins, to the point where she started to refer to herself - with a worrying absence of irony - as 'The Other Bradley'.  In a further worrying development, she then progressed to referring to Bradley Wiggins himself as 'The Other Bradley'.  And I guess that given his recent health issues, prompting him to withdraw from this year's Tour de France, somebody had to step up and be him on a bike for a bit...  I did manage to dissuade her from wearing stick-on sideburns, though these were mooted at one point.

Then at the start of the year, Clare announced her intention to compete in the London to Brighton cycling race, a 50 mile circuit from Clapham Common to the Sussex coast.  A little while later, I met Sarah McCartney on a 'perfumery crawl' in London, and discovered her quirky and eclectic range of scents: 4160 Tuesdays.  My attention was caught by one fragrance, Time to Draw the Raffle Numbers, which was directly inspired by Clare's hero - specifically the moment when Bradley Wiggins was on the podium after winning the Tour de France in 2012.  Sarah McCartney explains the background to the creation of this scent in a blog post, including the peculiarly British resonance of the phrase 'time to draw the raffle' after which she named the perfume:

Bradley's podium moment - source: cyclingweekly.co.uk

'When Sir Bradley Wiggins got up on the podium at the end of the Champs Elysées, with Chris Froome and that bloke who came third, a load of dignitaries, the sprinter Maurice Green and two skinny birds in yellow frocks carrying daffodils and stuffed toys, he addressed the gathered millions, and suggested that it looked like time the draw the raffle numbers.

He did it for the British cycling fans who’d travelled to Paris specially to see him there, the winner of the Tour de France, in his yellow jersey. He wanted to say something that would be meaningless to the rest of the world, because only the British know that when it’s all over, just before we all go home, that’s when we do the raffle. It was outrageous, original and funny. And I wanted to put it in a perfume.

This is a perfume of parts. I wanted the scent of a crowd on a hot day; coffee, tobacco, hot tarmac and linden trees of the Champs Elysées; oiled bicycles; marmalade on toast. I’m not sure if Sir Wiggo had marmalade on toast for breakfast but I’d like to think it was his petit dejeuner of choice the day after.'

I didn't sample Time to Draw the Raffle Numbers the day I met Sarah on our sniffing expedition, but I thought that as a card carrying Bradley fan, Clare simply had to try it.  Try it and very likely wear it on her ride to Brighton.  So I dropped Sarah a line, explaining about my friend's Wiggo fixation and upcoming cycling challenge, and she was kind enough to send a little roll-on of the scent for her and one for me.  Clare was very excited at the prospect of wearing a Bradley-inspired perfume on the big day, and carried on training in earnest.

Nice toenails!

Then, with just three days to go before the event, Clare fell while cycling at 17mph and badly hurt her leg, as well as all but writing off her bike.  Having seen photos of how much her leg swelled, I thought her hopes of riding so soon after her accident must have been scuppered, not least because of the mangled bike.  But a local cycle shop spent seven hours the following day wrenching it back into shape, and by the following Sunday, Clare was - if not good to go exactly, for her leg was still heavily swaddled - thoroughly determined to do the ride.

The day was not without incident, however, for Clare fell from her bike again before even leaving London, but was happily unhurt - or no more hurt that she was already, say. As she reports in a Facebook update after the event:

'It confused the hell out of a first aider when I fell off at a set of lights in London. He couldn't work out how someone had already patched me up, in between my collapsing in a heap and his battling through the crowds of cyclists to pick me up.'

But that fall did not deter her, and I am happy and amazed in equal measure to report that Clare did indeed complete the course, helped by the whiffs of Eau de Wiggo which she caught periodically rising up from whatever you call the equivalent of décolletage on a woman attired in top to toe Lycra.

'I could detect the special Wiggins perfume at every pedal.  Even above the all pervasive aroma of Deep Heat. I explained to my husband that it would spur me on and that I would be like the pre-knighthood Bradley, not this year's quitting Bradley. I would be that gritty Bradley. "You want to be Fat Gritty Bradley?" he queried, mishearing slightly. He has been calling me that ever since.'

And how does it smell, you may be wondering?  Well, like sweet orange-flavoured Shimano gears would be my best attempt at describing it, ie hot oily metal - and there is also a muzzy earthy feel to the scent that might be the tobacco.  Comforting for sure.

Of course I had to write to Sarah again after the race, telling her the good news that my friend had made it to the finishing line despite her set backs, and quoting her take on Eau de Wiggo.

'I did wear the perfume and I could smell it while I rode. Loved it and am sure it helped.'

To which came Sarah's delightfully pithy response:

'It must have worked then.'

The Da Vinci Formulation: Review Of The Perfume Collector By Kathleen Tessaro

The other weekend I finished reading The Perfume Collector by Kathleen Tessaro - there are a number of very comprehensive reviews in circulation already, so arguably the blogosphere is not in need of another, but my reading rate has been so woeful of late that the finishing of any book is a remarkable event worthy of commemoration.  In truth, I only took a month or two to read this one, which is a relative romp compared with the seven? that I spent on Alyssa Harad's Coming To My Senses.  This is mainly due to a sudden and inexplicable influx of scalding hot water from the boiler, facilitating a few long wallows in the bath, though I would also say that - conducive reading environment aside - The Perfume Collector is a right old page turner!

Plot summary: One letter will turn newly-married Grace Munroe’s life upside down:

‘Our firm is handling the estate of the deceased Mrs Eva D’Orsey and it is our duty to inform you that you are named as the chief beneficiary in her will. We request your presence at our offices at your earliest convenience, so that we may go through the details of your inheritance.’

There is only one problem. Grace has never heard of Eva D’Orsey.

So begins a journey which leads Grace through the streets of Paris and into the seductive world of perfumers and their muses. An abandoned perfume shop on the Left Bank will lead her to unravel the heartbreaking story of her mysterious benefactor, an extraordinary woman who bewitched high society in 1920s New York and Paris.

Yes, I was thoroughly gripped by this fiendishly plotted tale.  For this reason - and also because of its partial setting in Paris - I would liken the novel to Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code (which I and only umpteen billion other readers greatly enjoyed!) crossed with Downton Abbey and a goodly squirt of perfume.  The review with which I would most closely align myself is that of Natalie of Another Perfume Blog.  Like her, I find the characterisation a bit two-dimensional and the period feel somewhat lacking - which is all the more marked as the story is alternately held in TWO historical periods, the 1950s and late 1920s, but I was nonetheless kept happily in suspense by the twists and turns of the action.

Source: scenterelle.com

For The Perfume Collector is, as they say, 'a ripping yarn', and I don't think it is giving too much of the game away to say it features pretty much every theme going, including glittering Gatsby-esque parties, poor orphans in service, gambling cheats, Nazi persecution, sexual abuse, post-traumatic stress disorder, marriages of convenience, adultery, a miscarriage, a suicide or two, alcoholism, bisexuality, snobbery, mistaken identity, a high class prostitute, dangerous vegetation and some mysterious and tasteless ceramic figurines.   Well, no, that's an exaggeration, there's no black magic or clowns.  My favourite line in the book refers to a high class escort in New York, Miss Waverley, who plied her trade in a hotel where one of the two female protagonists in the book (Eva d'Orsey) is a maid.  Miss Waverley is teasingly described as 'a regular guest, although not a paying customer herself.  She just appeared, rather as an intriguing footnote to the travel arrangements of some of their wealthier male clients'.

One or two minor things bothered me about the novel: there is a major coincidence when two key characters who knew each other in New York happen to be staying at a hotel in Monte Carlo at exactly the same time.  There wasn't even an event like the Cannes Film Festival or the Grand Prix that might conceivably have brought about that far-fetched collision.  I also worried when these two made an excursion to Grasse on the train.  They decide to stay out late, intoxicated by the heady scent of the jasmine fields.  However, Grasse isn't Crewe or Grand Central Station - certainly not in the 1920s - and I couldn't help thinking they would almost certainly have missed the last train home, which tiny techical detail managed to distract me from the part of the storyline.

Then there are some perfume-related revelations about the other female protagonist (Grace Munroe)'s childhood, which are kept back till very near the end.  I feel sure that, given these childhood associations, Grace would have made a few key connections about the mysterious sequence of events unfolding in her life a heck of a lot quicker.  I also found her abrupt mood swings in her dealings with Monsieur Tissot, the estate agent handling the property she has inherited, a little bewildering.  Then there was also the odd typo and misplaced apostrophe, always guaranteed to wind me up (Place des Vogues, hello?!), but I can't lay the blame for that at Ms Tessaro's door.

Place des Vosges

After the breathtakingly complex plot, the descriptions of various vintage perfumes were the most rewarding aspect of the book for me, and here Kathleen Tessaro is in her descriptive element.

"Opening it, she sniffed the cork.  Its contents had long since evaporated, leaving a slightly grainy amber residue at the bottom of the bottle.  But there was a ghost of the intensely white bloom, undercut by a coolness, an almost metallic airiness, slicing through the depth and lushness that lingered still."

She is also a great ambassador for the fumehead community, extolling the transformative power of fragrance in people's lives:

"Perfume should tell a story – the story of who you are, who you might be, perhaps even of who you fear becoming…all of these things are possible. It’s a very intimate element of a woman, just like her signature or the sound of her voice."

Yes, any book that celebrates the power of perfume to help you "come to your senses" (that very phrase is even used in The Perfume Collector once or twice if my memory serves me), is to be welcomed.  The odd structural and characterisation niggles were vastly outweighed by the being swept - nay, wafted - along by the action until all the chips were down - in Monte Carlo and beyond  - and all the stoppers and secrets were out of the bottle...


Disclosure: I was sent a complimentary copy of The Perfume Collector by the publisher, HarperCollins.

Bvlgari Off-Black, Balenciaga Le Dix Blue And DKNY Rectory Red Delicious: Perfume, Farrow & Ball Paint And The Obsessive Gene

My choco-nemesis - Source: Wikimedia Commons via ed g2s

The other night I ate a whole box of Maltesers.  For no good reason at all.  At best it was due to an overdeveloped sense of order - an 'I've started so I'll finish' moment, if you will; at worst my malted meltdown is a sign that I am on the cusp of an eating disorder.  I can hear my mother's voice intoning the familiar refrain: 'You won't be happy till they're all gone!'.  Well, happy doesn't quite cover it.  Bloated and remorseful maybe.  Teeth on edge and body speeding on sugar.  Whatever the cause, doing the whole box is certainly an example of a type of compulsion, which got me thinking about other manifestations of obsessive behaviour in my life.

Well, it took me all of two seconds to think back to the start of my perfume hobby, and how I would stalk eBay, Makeupalley and The Perfumed Court website for hours on end, agonising over which samples to bid on / swap for / buy.  Four or five years ago I was totally consumed by the acquisitive urge, and was forever scouting around for my next 'fix' of samples.  There was that reliably heady rush as I would open a swap package or a little gauze bag from The Perfumed Court, accompanied by the ubiquitous boiled sweet.  It almost didn't matter whether you liked the perfumes or not - it was like buying a Lucky Dip bag as a kid or its adult equivalent of a lottery ticket or scratchcard - so much of the 'reward' is the thrill of the chase and the anticipation of gratification, even if the reality disappoints.

I mentioned in my recent blogging anniversary post that my interest in perfume has peaked, and the fragrant lemmings are mostly slain.  Though it has taken a good five years, eventually the law of diminishing returns - (the one principle I retained from a year of Economics at college albeit it was explained to us in the context of lemon barley water) - kicks in, and the adrenaline high turns to feelings of low level anxiety at the mounting stocks of samples to test and wear.  However, the acquisitive urge itself may not in fact have been quelled, but may simply have regrouped before finding a new outlet, like some kind of 'body hopping' demon.

And as readers who are also Facebook friends will know, my latest obsession appears to be with choosing paint - for rooms I don't even have imminent plans to decorate, for the bathroom really needs doing first.  The last time I mentioned my embryonic tester pot collection was around the time of my move last summer - I think I had about a dozen back then.  Well, we are talking over 40 now, a good 15 of them purchased in the last few days in a series of sudden death raids on Homebase.  It is only a matter of time before I shan't need to go to Homebase to buy paint pots, because the entire colour palette of Farrow & Ball will be based in my own home.  I paint a square on lining paper, then place it strategically near something in the room I am trying to match - a cushion, a headboard, a wardrobe or whatever.  The famous geode has been deployed as a paper weight, ditto the koala.

And I am finding that I get exactly the same surge of excitement as I prise off the lid of a tester pot - (with all paint brands, the actual colour never looks anything like the label, which may be a cunning ruse to get you to buy the thing!).  This thrill lasts during the process of application, through to the drying stage and late into the evening in fact, for you have to keep checking the colour at regular intervals for subtle tonal shifts.  Obviously, if the colour is hopelessly wrong from the word go - the paint equivalent of a perfume 'scrubber', if you will - then my F & B 'fix' is curtailed to a matter of seconds, but the buzz you get even from opening the pot is well worth £3.99 a pop in my view.

Walls: White Tie, woodwork & ceiling: Pointing ;-)

Now with the help of fellow blogger Lucy of Indieperfumes and a couple of other friends, I have whittled the choice for the guest room down to one or three shades (Vert de Terre, Ball Green or Mizzle), and am already starting to eye up my own bedroom.  Lime White is a glaring omission from my stockpile, I note, which will doubtless propel me storewards in the next day or so.  Meanwhile, speaking of piles, I now understand why the Egyptians felt moved to build the pyramids...

And finally, while researching 'body hopping' in Wikipedia, I came upon this intriguing custom amongst the Digo people of Kenya.

'Spirit possession occurs among the women of the Digo people of Kenya.  The Digo refer to the spirits in question as shaitani. These shaitani typically demand luxury items to make the patient well again.'

Luxury items, eh?  I am hanging on these paint pots - you never know when you just might fancy a Cabbage White wall or a cupboard interior in Incarnadine - but I might just have a few samples of perfume going spare... ;-).

So...has anyone else abandoned scent squirrelling in favour of a new 'habit'?  

Do share it with the group - the more obsessive the better!  

NB All of the fictitious perfume names in the title are based around current Farrow & Ball shades.  I might also have mentioned Nandebary Ball Green, Miller Harris Citron or D & G Light Blue.  Hold on - that one is an actual perfume!

Paris Is For Perfume Lovers: Part 3 - Meeting Denyse Beaulieu And The Undinas

Day 3 was dry (hurrah!), and I decided to wear my T K Maxx Toast dress or bust (I am of that age - I shall wear purple!), teamed with a pair of unsensible shoes.  I had arranged to hook up with Denyse Beaulieu (of Grain de Musc and The Perfume Lover fame) for coffee that morning in the 17e district - this was technically not a blind date, as I had briefly talked to her at the launch of Séville à L'aube in London last year.  Greetings over, I lost no time in apologising for the fact that I was wearing the same outfit as the last time she had met me.  'I do have other clothes.' I piped up staunchly.

The three most memorable aspects of my meeting with Denyse were firstly her silver sunglasses, a perfect match for her now luxuriantly long ('fifty shades of grey') hair.  Then there was the surprise fact that she is acquainted with the widow of Alain Robbe-Grillet, an avant-garde French author I studied at university, and thirdly - and most tantalisingly - she had just come back from a press junket the day before, held in a marquee on a rocky promontory in the wilds of Brittany.  The company's in-house perfumer had regaled them with nuggets about his portfolio of materials, while the assembled guests enjoyed a delicious lunch against an idyllic backdrop of waves lapping the shore and glinting in the sunlight.  Her evocative description of the scene made me want to visit the area again, and retest all those Breton coast-inspired scents such as Miller Harris Fleurs de Sel and the Lostmarc'h range.  It also brought back happy memories of childhood bucket and spade holidays in other parts of The Celtic Fringe such as Cornwall and SW Ireland...

After our chat, Denyse was off to visit the Guerlain factory on one of their rare opening days, while I dived on the Metro and made my way to the apartment Undina (of Undina's Looking Glass) and her vSO had booked for their stay, which had been cut short by a day owing to the air traffic controllers' strike.  We had agreed that I would meet them there, to help out with any translation issues during the handover with their landlady.

A near-miss transaction with a possible impostor

Unfortunately, Undina and her vSO were held up in traffic on the way down from the airport in a taxi - I say unfortunately, not because I was in any hurry myself, but because it was clear that the landlady was keen to get the payment for the apartment and shoot off.  Reading between the lines and observing the elaborate care with which she made up her face right there in front of me, I think she had a hot date to go to, which could explain some of her agitation.  I figured that realistically The Undinas could be another half an hour or so, so I tried to stall the landlady by asking her to show me where everything was kept and how every last appliance worked in great detail - TV, washing machine, dishwasher, several coffee machines of varying degrees of sophistication.  'Be most particular about pre-piercing the little plastic container of coffee before insertion.'

Bears a passing resemblance to the designated piercing utensil for the coffee dose thingy 

We also discussed bin and cleaning routines and the fact that the enticing terrace was sadly not weight-bearing; we pored over maps of the local area, and the landlady indicated the best restaurants, the nearest pharmacy, bank and the best bus stops for the most scenic rides.  A good five minutes were killed leafing through the visitors' book together and reading past guest comments.  I volunteered to translate a few of the English ones to gain a bit more time.  Ever the market researcher, I quizzed the lady about the relative breakdown of her client base, the average numbers of guests per rental and seasonal patterns.  She told me about one single woman who came for a month at a time, and a party of five Italians for whom she rustled up an additional roll-out bed.  Then I told her about my hotel, and we discussed the prevailing room rates in that part of Paris versus the rental sector.

Source: Wikimedia Commons via Jebulon

Readers, I did my level best to stall this lady, but it looked like it wasn't going to be for long enough, for after about twenty minutes or so she abruptly interjected: 'Look, I really must be away by 2pm latest, and I need my money.  Have you got the money, or can you go to a cash point and give it me if they don't show up in time, and have them pay you back later?'  So I thought for a moment: 'Was I be prepared to hand over a substantial sum of money in cash to a lady I don't know on behalf of two friends I have never met?'  And the answer was: 'Of course I would!', but as things worked out, the Undinas' taxi drew up just in the nick of time, the lady got paid, scarpered, and all was well.

Well, we assumed all was well, though Undina's vSO sowed a seed of doubt after the landlady's departure.  'Hold on, didn't she tell you on the phone that she was about 60?  That woman was never 60!  She looked a lot younger.'  'Do you suppose she might have had work done?' I inquired helpfully.  Undina's vSO puzzled over this for a moment and replied, with a wry grin: 'I am still not convinced she is the right woman.  D'you realise we may just have gone and paid a big wedge of money to an impostor?'

Source: qype.fr

Lunch - tasty, if somewhat lost in translation

Ever the optimists, we dismissed this thought from our minds and Undina and her vSO set about freshening themselves up and Undina also did a spot of ironing, which in hindsight was another topic I could have used to delay the landlady's departure.  'Where is the ironing board kept?  Is it a steam iron?  Any special water you have to use with that?  Would you mind talking me through the settings?  Is there an instruction book with it perhaps?  And do you have a little tea cloth type-thing for delicate garments?'

Undina and her vSO were understandably hungry from their journey, so our first port of call was a bistro on the nearby square.  Here, on my advice, Undina's vSO ordered 'cassolette', which I had momentarily confused with 'cassoulet', a hearty stew featuring meat and haricot beans.  Undina's vSO quickly detected the complete absence of either, but got sportingly stuck into what turned out to be a mega-cheesy potato gratin dish.

One day, two closed perfume shops and three pairs of shoes

Fortified by our meal, the three of us spent the next few hours walking around the city, loosely following an itinerary I had devised earlier.  The first stop was L'Arc de Triomphe, cunningly chosen for its iconic tourist value and proximity to the Guerlain HQ at No 68, Champs Elysées.   Imagine our dismay to find that Guerlain happened to be closed that day, a Friday!  Perhaps all the staff had gone to the factory with Denyse?  Seems as plausible a theory as any, but what utter and undivided cheek!  Our disappointment was only slightly assuaged by the sight of a spectacular bee bottle hoarding just to the left of the main entrance.

Pictures of bottles are no substitute for the real thing

By the time we had legged it to the Place de la Concorde my feet were killing me, and I gladly succumbed to my second pair of shoes, carried with me for just such an emergency.  These flat leather pumps were a little tight to be honest, but they pinched in different places at least compared to the high heels they had replaced.  And in footwear as in life, a change is as good as a rest.

The joy of Jovoy

We strolled along the linden-lined  rue de Rivoli, talking about the lindens in Undina's native Ukraine, dived up to the Place de Vendôme and then back down to the niche mecca that is Jovoy in the rue de Castiglione, mindful that they shut at 7pm.  I guess we must have had about half an hour browsing in there - by a happy chance there was a selection of seating for non-perfumista spouses, but Undina's vSO ended up engaging in a bit of sampling himself, all-round good egg that he was.  Undina and I worked our way round most of the store in a systematic fashion, with my comrade-at-nose occasionally having to bring me to heel as my natural instinct was to drift off and start exploring things that caught my eye anywhere in the store, much like an overexcited magpie.

I can't tell you exactly what we sniffed but I did retain some favourite blotters, chief amongst which were Ramon Monegal's Ambra di Luna (the highlight of the whole trip, no less - review by The Non-Blonde here), along with two to which Undina drew my attention, namely Xerjoff Fatal Charme and Kind of Blue from their 'Join The Club' range.  There are no available notes for either of those, but they are powdery orientals at a guess?  Undina may be able to help us out here.  Then I do remember being pleasantly surprised by The Vagabond Prince's Enchanted Forest, despite my difficult relationship with blackcurrant.  Aedes de Venustas on the other hand proved to be too tart, despite my easy relationship with rhubarb.

At chucking out time, we mosied along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré towards the Palais-Royal gardens.  Pausing outside the now shut Serge Lutens / Shisheido store (try saying that quickly after one too many Pernods!), we peered into the sepulchral and purplish gloom of its baroque interior.  I must say that the Undinas were jolly good sports about this steady procession of closed perfume stores I brought them to - well, two out of three so far.

So we hopped on a tube to St Paul, and I showed my companions the Marais district they nearly stayed in, including the elegant colonnades of the Place des Vosges.  We shared a bottle of wine at a pavement cafe by the statue of the Bastille (thanks, guys!), before heading back to our respective bases for the briefest of pitstops before dinner (and in my case, a change into pair of shoes No 3).

It was late by this time, but the restaurant I had lined up didn't bat an eyelid when I made a booking for 10.15pm.  We rolled out of there at about midnight, armed with a dessert doggy bag, which we shared over a cup of tea at the Undinas' apartment.  Finally, it was time to say our goodbyes, which speaking for myself was quite a wrench.  For despite only having known Undina and her vSO in person for about 12 hours give or take, I had already developed a fierce affection for the pair of them, and very much hope our paths will cross again.  I'll have the cash ready this time, just in case...;-)

And what of Rusty?  Well, apparently he had a live-in carer while his owners were away, as befits a puss with America's Top Feline Model status.  I imagine he might have enjoyed Paris too - there are a lot of sewer rats and any amount of cafes for practising his poses.

Check out Undina's account of her Paris stopover, including a cute shot of Rusty inspecting her holiday perfume bottle!

PS The results of the 'Bonkers at 3.6' prize draw will be coming up next!

Paris Is For Perfume Lovers: Part 2 - Solo Sniffing In Printemps, IUNX & The Odd Shop In Between

After my lunch with Neela, replete with liver and sundry other spicy delights I am not sure I could put a name to, I decided to work off some calories by pounding the pavements and hitting the perfume trail.  The nearest retail behemoth was Printemps, the layout of which you would think I would have grasped by now, having visited the store three times in as many years, near enough.  Not so.  Printemps is as confusing as the room sets in IKEA, and I always find myself starting my search for the niche fragrance area in the wrong building.  And when I do eventually locate the way to the Beauty section within the right building, I invariably stumble across Jo Malone first every time.

JO MALONE

I am not sure I am wholly comfortable with the new ownership by Esteé Lauder, and one or two of the recent launches such as Plum Blossom have had that mainstream floral, ozonic, Herbal Essences vibe going on.  However, when it comes to getting under your feet and in your face, the Jo Malone concessions simply can't be beat.  As a result, I always start off any sniffing session with the latest half a dozen or so scents from the line, somewhat queering my nose in the process, and end up being a bit cross with the brand on yet another count.  It probably taps deep into some childhood shame about spoiling my appetite by gorging on wine gums right before dinner.

All of the above notwithstanding, I have taken the trouble to conserve my smelling strips, so I can tell you that I tested:

Velvet Rose Oud
Amber and Patchouli
Oud and Bergamot
Saffron Cologne Intense
Rosewater and Vanilla

Sneaky shot of the niche area while the security man was on his mobile

Amber and Patchouli was rather pleasant, in a L'Ombre Fauve-Lite kind of way, and I would happily have worn either the Saffron Cologne Intense or the Oud and Bergamot if someone gave me a sample.  None of them blew me away though, which seems to be rather the trouble with the house these days.  I cut my niche teeth on Jo Malone, and it seemed ever such an exotic and prestigious brand back in 2008 when I was stalking Ebay for minis and 30ml bottles of just about any scent you care to name (except Grapefruit Cologne, obviously).  Yet most of the recent launches seem to me more like casually shuffled olfactory building blocks, cobbled together in the spirit of: 'Oh, have we put rose with oud yet, or what about vanilla instead?  Or shall we take a punt on both?'  Maybe the whole layering concept underpinning the Jo Malone ethos has backfired on them by fostering a perception in the customer's mind that no single perfume is a viable entity in its own right.  

Having a tea - and teal - moment

FREDERIC MALLE

Having got up to speed with the JMs, I took my slightly compromised nose over to the Frédéric Malle stand, where the sales assistant let me make my own sample of Dries Van Noten using one of the test tube-style receptacles which Freddie (another Freddie!) of Smellythoughts recently put me onto.  They are wide at the opening and taper to a point, perfect for spraying commando.  (Sorry, I seem to be rather partial to that word at the moment.)  My pride at having successfully negotiated this DIY sample favour was quickly dented by the SA chiding me for thinking Dans tes Bras didn't smell of very much.  She proceeded to drench an embossed blotter with the fragrance, which was my cue to agree that it was (of course!) rather a strong scent after all.  Or it was on card, certainly.  Now I didn't care for the opening of Dries Van Noten (which it's taking all my concentration not to call Denise Van Outen); it was very peanut brittly in the manner of SL Jeux de Peau, but I have yet to do a proper test and pay attention to the drydown - the reviews seem to indicate it is likely to be very much to my taste.

Denise Van Outen, looking uncharacteristically moody - Source: The Randomizer

DIPTYQUE

I paused momentarily by the Diptyque counter, and sniffed the new summer scent, Eau Mohéli, a perky violet leaf-spicy-greenish number built around a central note of ylang-ylang.  I swear the sales assistant never mentioned that key fact, for I am sure - ylangoholic that I am - my ears would have pricked up if she had.  Whilst refreshing, this scent again failed to move me particularly.   Patty of Perfume Posse hits the nail on the head when she says in her review:  'It’s crisp, which feels weird for a ylang fragrance.'

SERGE LUTENS

I stopped by the Serge Lutens area briefly to try Fille de Berlin, whereupon the assistant promptly extended a blotter.  I inhaled deeply.  'Hmm', I mused.  'This is nicer than I was expecting, sort of fruity and more floral.'  The assistant loitered for a good couple of minutes, observing my reaction, before blurting out: 'Oh, I do apologise - I've given you Datura Noir!'  She quickly proffered what looked like a white spectacle-cleaning cloth, and which was pre-sprayed with Fille de Berlin.  The spicy opening knocked my head off and slew the lemming in one seamless swipe, however the drydown - a whole week later! - is characterised by a tender, realistic rose note.  As with Dries Van Outen, I think I need to conduct a proper test.

TOM FORD

The highlight of my sniffing in Printemps was my systematic sampling of the latest Private Blends - that's the Jardin Noir and the Atelier d'Orient Collections, plus I also tried Sahara Noir for good measure (incense on steroids, but I sensed it might be lovely after a day or so).  As ever, Tom is keeping up the 'noir' theme I note, though it was nice to see him breaking away from references to 'wood' and 'oud' in the titles.  I liked all the Jardin Noir scents, with Jonquille de Nuit and Lys Fume stealing the show.  The Atelier d'Orient scents were more disappointing - and a little bit odd. Plum Japonais in particular was a 'me-too' car crash version of Féminité du Bois, to be perfectly blunt about it.

The very lovely sales assistant, who bobbed and smiled like a sleek black moor hen, made me up a sample of Jonquille de Nuit, which I would liken to DelRae Début but without the indolic drydown.  As I went to thank her, I peered at her (generic) name badge and said, with only a trace of mischief in my voice: 'And you would be...hold on...Tom Ford!  Why thank you, Tom - it was very nice to meet you.'  To which she replied, grinning broadly: 'I am also Julie.'  

IUNX

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of wandering.  I ambled down rue Cambon, stopping for a cup of tea and a blotter consolidation session in a cafe opposite no 31.  Then I dropped into IUNX to pay a social call on Ron the manager.  I explained that I had still to make a serious dent in the Eau Frappée light sabre I had bought on my visit in 2009, and that even if I had fallen for the latest release, L'Arbre, there was no way I could accommodate another whopping truncheon in my fridges.  

As it turned out, L'Arbre was a spicy woody scent that might have made a better candle or room fragrance.  Ron showed me some photos on his phone of this year's Christmas window display, which had been a huge hit with the Japanese apparently, a steady stream of whom had paused to take photographs of the curious and colourful playplax edifice.  Except it wasn't playplax as such, though it was evidently a close relation, prompting Ron and me to reminisce about playing with the toy stuff as kids.

Source: sistersguild.co.uk

DIOR

I was starting to flag by now, but took a peek inside a Dior store, where the assistant had a particularly sparkly smile.  

The ultimate way to curb snacking?

Then a sign in the Rue Castiglione amused me, because I used to go out with an Italian plastics engineer called Bruno.

Hey, look - I still have the 'his and hers' egg cups to prove it!

Coming up in Part 3 - another perfumista meet-up or two!  The picture below is a clue, but I should point out that the cat in question is an impostor...

Source: animalrescue.org