Sense of a woman, A Personal Memory Through Perfume

A rather gruff, pragmatic friend of mine surprised me recently when he mentioned that when he was a child, his mother died of cancer and he subsequently began to follow women around supermarkets who smelt like his mum.

"My older brothers would yell at me 'Where the f--- you going?' as I wandered off down an aisle and I'd say 'she's wearing mum's perfume!'"

I'll pause here a second to let your heart break, like mine did. In fact, next time I see this guy I'll give him a hug on behalf of all of us because, despite his surliness, relentless political incorrectness and partiality to bar fights, you can still see that little boy in his eyes when he smiles.

We'd been chatting about whale vomit and how it was sought-after by perfumers to make fragrances and every guy at the table was able to name a distant teenage love and the usually atrocious, cheap scent she used.

White Diamonds by Elizabeth Arden. 4711. Rive Gauche by Yves Saint Laurent.

"It doesn't matter where or when I smell it, who's wearing it, I think of my ex and my throat closes up and I'm in love again for about three seconds," said one gentleman.

Now I'm a grown-up, I find the whole concept of perfume kind of ridiculous, particularly the implied notion women need to daub themselves with a fragrance to "smell nice". It echoes the same cheerful hostility as make-up and high heels, which we chatted about on this blog six years ago.

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