Eau de Toilette

Today in town is exactly like Sundays used to be, with the exception that the flower shop on the bridge is open, with buckets of bloom and blossom taking up most of the pavement outside.

I hardly ever go into florists these days, but I used to visit them just to breath in the wonderful mixture of scents. It isn't just the blooms - the wet greenery contributes generously to the heady blend.

Have you ever been into the massive heated palm house at Kew on a Winter day? That is an exotic experience never to be forgotten.

The house that I was brought up in had a large glazed conservatory on one part of the South wall. I don't think it was ever used other than by my mother for the occasional potting of seedlings destined to be replanted in the garden outside. It had a huge system of hot water pipes and radiators which were never switched on by my frugal father, but even on a cold Winter day it was warm enough for shirt sleeves if the sun was shining.

Of the several bathrooms in the house, I preferred the cramped little one near the kitchen which was built for the original owner's servants. You could - and I often did - stand up in the bath and open the leaded window which was contained within the glass walls of the conservatory. I would lean out (or in) with my arms resting on the cill, breathing in the warm, musty, bone-dry scent of a long-dead fern which carpeted the beds with its tiny, pale brown needles. All I have to do is close my eyes and remember to bring this 60 year old experience back to life.

There are many aromas which bring that house back to me. Cigars (a rare scent these days) and spirit alcohol is Christmas. Mitsouko perfume is my mother preparing for the annual Ball at the Grand Lodge in Great Queen Street. Lily of the Valley soap is the dark green bathroom which was attached - for some reason - to the entrance hall and never, ever used, apart from when my aunt would arrive by car from Brighton, unable to make it to another W.C. deeper in the house without wetting herself.

Next to the bottles of perfume on her dressing table was a small, dried gourd. It had been emptied of seeds and pulp, the the top stalk with attached cap had been replaced to make a container for small items, but it was always empty of trinkets. About once a week I would sneak into my parent's bedroom and stick my nose into that gourd, just to experience the sweet, uncorrupted miasma it contained.

Azaleas, beech nuts, leaf mould, lavender, quince, yew... I could go on, but so could you.