In the past few years, I have discovered I am a stubborn perfume snob. This self-discovery especially amazes me because, unlike my assured and often overbearing opinions on things concerning clothing and accessories, I've never really cared for perfume. As long as it smelled nice, I liked it. 'Nice', I have come to agree, is a rather rude word.
Since perfumes are the most convenient gift items, every travelling relative or boyfriend returned with a bottle or two from the duty-frees across the world. I don't think I ever bought myself a fragrance, my dresser would be lined with a dozen of them.
My first tryst with Chanel No 5 was as a teenager. It was a gift from an indulgent aunt and I wore it with as much joy as I did a body mist from The Body Shop. Youth is so obviously wasted on the young.
On my first trip to London with our son, at a particularly crowded Harrod's shop floor, I found myself elbowed in at a Jo Malone counter. The husband asked me to choose a fragrance, I tested a few and picked Lime Basil and Mandarin Cologne. I also learned here there is no such thing as 'masculine' or 'feminine' in perfume. You are supposed to wear what you like, the rest is marketing malarkey. Each time I wear this perfume, I am transported to my warm serviced apartment at Gloucester Road and pram-pushing evenings at Kensington Gardens.
Once, a friend suggested a flacon of Annick Goutal as a must-buy from Paris. I found a niche in the terribly touristy Champs Elysees and discovered a fragrance that would change my nose forever. 'Songes' was intense, captivating and very sensual. As are many perfumes, but it didn't allow me to wear anything else. (Incidentally, my son was three then, he played tic-tac-toe and chose the bottle for me.)
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