Scented Santa

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Do you make your own Christmas cards? Nothing nicer and I am filled with admiration for you. I remember those long-ago sticky days at the kitchen table with cartridge paper never quite cut properly to size; with tubes of glitter, blunted scissors, pots of Gloy, paints and felt; with stars, tinsel and bugle beads. So much raw material and so few usable cards to show up for it: an occupation for the days when Time conducted himself in a leisurely manner. Then, the weeks before Christmas loitered and lingered instead of rushing past as now, with Time driving his winged chariot at breakneck speed, faster than Santa’s sleigh. If I were to make my own cards now I would have to begin in June, like Joan Crawford, and I’d never ever come close to having the 100 or so I usually send out.

But every autumn I still start with sentimental ideas of spending a cosy afternoon and evening writing my admittedly store-boughten cards in a snug & glowing cosy kitchen with the wireless on and the kettle singing. I’m fine for a couple of hours but then l mislay my master list; mismatch the envelopes; become nauseated by licking the gum and develop writer’s cramp. My method begins to unravel and instead of accomplishing the project in a single sitting, it stretches out over days and weeks, still ending in a scrabble for the last post.

I also try to match the subject of the card to the recipient: so I buy Madonnas and snow-bound birds; landscapes and formal holly sprays; skating pugs, polar bears and frosted ice flowers. Sometimes a touch of secular humour: my own favourite last year was a charity archive “snap” of a jolly old couple pulling a cracker over enormous helpings of Christmas pudding. But it has occurred to me of late that there is an additional pleasure in scenting my outgoing mail. You might try it. An unusual way of personalising your greetings and dead easy,too. There’s something awfully romantic about sending a delicious smell – the smell of oneself – through the post; sealed up in an envelope to be released by the recipient hundreds – even thousands – of miles away.

Here’s what I do. I take my favourite fragrance (or more than one – this is an occasion on which you can happily mix ad lib)- and spray a little onto a paper tissue. Then I just lay this in the box in which I keep my stationery, put the lid on and leave for a couple of days. If you’d like to have a go at this and think you may prefer the scent stronger, then spray several tissues and, when dry, intersperse them between the sheets and cards. Don’t be tempted to spray direct onto cards or envelopes as this may stain or cause ink to blot or run. Never discard a tissue; simply add more for a rich accumulation of perfume. Orientals, chypres and dark fougeres seem to work best but, as I say, experiment. I’m sure one writes one messages more creatively with all this redolence stimulating the brain.

Merry Christmas to all our dear readers! Please accept this as an electronic card of sorts from Lemon Wedge – unscented but, like Mary Poppins’s magical medicine bottle, may each of you smell his own favourite fragrance therein!

Egg Sandwiches

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Dedicated – without permission but with admiration – to Mrs E.S.

I’m not always at the receipt of custom at the shop, you know; on Mondays I have to go to Richmond and there I usually treat myself to an egg sandwich for lunch. Don’t you think there’s something modestly festive about such a thing? Elizabeth David mused over the delicate magic of an exquisitely simple and perfect omelette . After all those years of egg terror we are now told we can eat as many as we like and do ourselves nothing but good. And in the supermarkets the egg sandwich is usually the cheapest option. Nicer to make it at home, though, and then wrap in a parcel of greaseproof paper with a little twist of salt – celery salt is nice – packed separately. Scrambled egg – maybe with a touch of tomato ketchup or a scratching of Marmite or Bovril – can be excellent; but the classic version has to be hard boiled egg, sliced with mayonnaise. My mum used to substitute sliced tomatoes for the mayonnaise and add a great deal of black pepper. On thin slices of brown bread these were lusciously damp and most nutritious. Eggs go good with watercress or sprinkled lightly with paprika. The delicate crunchiness of mustard & cress gives an intriguing contrast of texture. I have eaten anchovy and egg sandwiches at a Kensington cafe: a delicious idea but it didn’t work that well – there was too much anchovy and crusted salt, and the little fishes were not sufficiently drained of their oil so that I spoiled a good tie.

The nicest way is the simplest way. Take your eggs ( once brought to room temperature so that they don’t crack) and bring them to a gentle boil. Cover, remove from the heat and leave for about nine minutes, then plunge into cold water. When cooled, peel them. Now this is the bit that people don’t like. There comes a concomitant eggy smell; to some it is a sulphurous smell, and the longer you wait before peeling the eggs the stronger the smell will be. This puts some workers off bringing them to work for an economical lunch. They are embarrassed to shell them. Take heart! The great Fred MacMurray brought a couple of hard boiled eggs for lunch on the Paramount lot daily: and if he could beg a slice of free bread in the Commissary so much the better. He ended up as one of the richest men in the movies.

Katharine MacDonogh* tells a comical story of Queen Alexandra and her peke that demonstrates perfectly the problem of the egg odour. Alexandra’s dog Togo had died and the lovely Queen who was by this stage becoming increasingly eccentric refused to allow him to be buried: she insisted on keeping the body on Togo’s favourite cushion in the very warm Sandringham boudoir and over a period of days the atmosphere became – shall we say? – “difficult”. When a plate of egg sandwiches arrived one tea time, Alexandra exclaimed,”Ach! They smell just like poor little Togo!” And went into a tremendous fou rire which, so to speak, cleared the air, so that Togo was belatedly laid to rest in the garden.

So: to return to the chopping board. Having shelled those eggs, slice them and arrange on buttered bread and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Then glob a nice big spoonful of mayonnaise on top ( Hellmanns is best but Heinz Salad Cream is piquant) and smooth over. Exquisite simplicity. Maybe a suggestion of red pepper or paprika? Wrap your sandwich in a couple of large lettuce leaves to keep it fresh and then tuck it in your lunch bag. I feel that a decent white loaf – or soda bread – best brings out the eggy creamy flavour. A rough sweet-smelling brown bread tempers the unctuousness of the experience.

Lastly, is there anyone out there who remembers childhood stories – dating at least from the 1920’s – about the Egg-Eyed Sharps? The inspired name comes from a type of sewing needle; the tiny malevolent creatures (more roguish precursors of The Borrowers) lurked behind curtains and above pelmets, spying on human activity with bulbous ovate peepers. If any reader can shed more light – or submit an good ‘n’ easy egg recipe – please write in!

* In her wonderful book “Reigning Cats and Dogs”, Fourth Estate 1999.

Fallen Angels

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Such incredible fierce desire to re-watch REBECCA: do you remember the dialogue in the first reel when Joan Fontaine talks of bottling up her memories like perfume? Larry grimly reminds her that those little bottles “sometimes contain demons that have a way of popping out at you just as you’re trying most desperately to forget”. I thought Hallowe’en this year was pretty diabolical in the literal sense. It’s become such a massive occasion (commercially second only to Christmas), and on that mad Friday evening when temperatures in London reached 74 degrees things to me seemed frighteningly out of hand; had gone Too Far. Everything was going curiously awry – Tubes packing up, trains running late, tourists losing their way and fainting in the heat. We were all led astray that night: the popular consciousness had frivolously courted evil and boy! did we reap the wild wind.

As we know, goodness and virtue have a beautiful odour – Alexander the Great’s sweat smelled of violets; the relics of the saints give off an immortal redolence of roses. The corresponding perception is that evil smells corrupt, foul and repellent. And, according to old medical miasma theory, what smells bad will make you sick: disease is transmitted not by germs but by smell. This theory was current even a hundred years ago: my grandmother (her father was a health inspector and recognised smallpox cases by the characteristic smell of apples) certainly subscribed to it. I remember being hurried past stagnant ponds with a hanky drenched in iced lavender cologne clapped over my nose.

Satan, the Fallen Angel of Light, smells of sulphurous fires and excrement. Not for nothing were early matches, soaked in bone-rotting phosphorous, named Lucifers. I used to have dreadful dreams about sensing the demonic presence, not by the smell but by a glimpse of the cloven hoof behind a door or curtain. And of course that hoof takes us back to the notorious smell of goats, the farmyard and the pagan world of satyrs. Kilian chooses to eschew a close encounter with the Evil One. PLAYING WITH THE DEVIL is inspired by ideas of the Great God Pan rioting through lush fruity thickets “spreading ruin and scattering ban”; the old fertility god of the ancient world who was proscribed as a demon by the early Church.

But this is an innocent if indulgent scent. Go a shade darker with Nu_Be’s burning lake of SULPHUR which conjures up night’s dark angels with black angelica, cinnamon, the eternal fires of ginger, opoponax and pimento. It’s one of a series of perfumes celebrating the elemental and generative elements of the universe: SULPHUR separates the Creationists from the Darwinians and has a certain theatrical fiery flash to it. Blue flames to light up Christmas and to dress you as the Demon King for the panto matinee.

CUIR VENENUM by Parfumerie Generale has long been an object of veneration and curiosity to collectors of the bizarre. A fathomless abyss of soft musky leather illuminated with burning sulphur and bitter myrrh; and perversely sweetened with innocent orange blossom – Satan before and after the Fall. And finally try the Serge Lutens curiously mesmerising VITRIOL D’OEILLET, which brings out the love/hate metallic sharpness of pinks and carnations hiding beneath their peppery sweetness, as a vitriol thrower conceals her sulphuric acid in a posy of flowers.

Devil take the hindmost: why not come by, come buy?

Tom Daxon: Bear with me

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How do you feel about bears? I am devoted to the creatures: my favourite wild beasts. Some biologists think that they are closer to Man even than the primates. The skeleton of a bear – and the bear’s posture when it gets up on its hinders – is very like that of a human. Whether they be black, brown, white or grizzly, bears have about them an apparent affability and solid self-sufficiency that is deeply attractive. They are also powerful, resourceful and enigmatic: the polar bear keeps a poker face so that one never knows until too late whether his mood is benevolent or deadly. Solitary, intelligent and brave bears are a formidable animal role-model. “I always think bears are simply terribly attractive” says Victoria in Nancy Mitford’s Love in a Cold Climate.

Clearly, classy young perfumer Tom Daxon feels the same: he has a confident and massive brown bear as his logo, an unexpected touch which I find extremely engaging. There is a wonderful contrast between the huggable furry face and the classically elegant bottles and packaging of Tom’s brand: the beast adds a touch of humour and quirkiness to a product which for my money is one of the most satisfying and interesting lines of British perfumery today. And how marvellous it is, to see this resurgence in the art of British fragrance. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries England played a central role in European perfumery: London was the most important and powerful city in the western world, the centre of a vast empire. The fragrance trade flourished accordingly, equalled in splendour only by that of France and fed by exotic ingredients from the British colonies. The wheel has come full circle – we are once more the epicentre of scent with products known and exported all over the world. Tom is based England but his scents are made in Grasse, in a long-standing intimate partnership with family friends of the bosom Jacques and Carla Chabert, father and daughter perfumers whom Tom has known since childhood.

My current Daxon rave is still CRUSHING BLOOM – an absolutely inspired title for a glorious green spicy rose weighed down with raindrops, nectar and gorgeous scent. The first word makes you think of pashes & Schwarmerei & swooning in the conservatory; it has a wonderful onamatopeic quality and it rhymes with “lush”, a quality it has in abundance. “Crushing”: it’s kind of fun to say the word out loud, rolling it around the tongue, thinking of crush bars, fresh fruit drinks, Imperial Roman revellers crushed under tonnes of petals. Then “bloom”, a great silky flower pinned in one’s hair, in a corsage or lowering, vast and heavy and outsize in a flower bed: I’m sure if we could hear a huge flower opening it would make a sound like this, a whooshing resonant noise as great velvet petals roll back like theatre curtains or lilies trumpet forth nectar and pollen. But CRUSHING BLOOM is more than just a thrilling name it is also a perfume of immense panache, style and eternal chic: it bows to the past and salutes the future.

Crushing Bloom from Tom Daxon

Crushing Bloom from Tom Daxon

Then consider the pale golden beauty of another favourite, SICILIAN WOOD: a delicate but exquisitely defined orchestration of citrus, floral and woody notes which conjures up the presence of a southern orchard carpeted with jasmine, lily of the valley and glowing windfalls, the sunlight drawing the fragrance from the barks and branches of the ancient trees. Tom always delivers what he promises: his scents are never tricky or showy but have an assured confidence and silky authority, just like those bears.

Sicilian Wood from Tom Daxon

Sicilian Wood from Tom Daxon

Many of us yearn for a signature scent, something as near as we can get to an involuntary animal identity, a defined seductive/ warning presence, an assertion of personality. Humans long for the reassurance of recognition: “I shall know as I am known”. Tom Daxon takes his inspirations from the fascination of raw materials; he appreciates perfumes that recreate a specific material or perception – the touch of cool long wet grass or silver-iris cashmere; the odours of fine leather, frankincense and cognac. This visceral response of the creator gives his scents a frankness and purity that make them instantly recognisable; the smooth link of an old tradition illuminated by a new perception. It also makes Daxon fragrances ideal for use as the most prestigious of perfume wardrobes with a mood to suit every occasion. Much as I was entranced by a lady who told me that the Free French were able to find her London apartment by following a long long trail of Shalimar a-winding down the Goldhawk Road, I would much prefer the infinite variety so praised in Cleopatra.

Tom Daxon

Tom Daxon

Maybe one day Tom will present with us with the definite odour of the Serpent of Old Nile. Meanwhile for now, EXIT PURSUED BY A BEAR.

You can meet Tom Daxon at our festive soiree on Wednesday 10th December at our Seymour Place shop!

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The Splendour of Splendours

Pharaoh Hatshepsut

Pharaoh Hatshepsut

 

They were talking about the female Pharaoh Hatshepsut on the radio the other day and I was taken back 20 years to my visit to her mortuary temple on the West Bank of the Nile. To the ancient Egyptians this was the land of the dead, the domain of the setting sun. From a distance the Splendour of Splendours looks like an Art Deco cinema or a 3,000 year old shopping complex rising in three pillared tiers and terraces hewn out of the rockface backing the Valley of the Kings.

On the silver-blue and apricot early morning of my visit the air was full of the scent of fresh mint and sweet basil. 3,500 years ago it was here that Hatshepsut planted the myrrh trees brought back from the Land of Punt, the Realm of the Gods beyond the Red Sea: the guides still show you the plots where the bushes grew between the paving slabs. Among them flowered fragrant henna: strands of hair dyed with the leaves can still be seen on the skulls of certain mummies, though the body of the Woman-King has vanished, probably for ever. Myrrh was a sacred substance in Egypt as in so many other ancient middle eastern cultures. Today we recognise it as a powerful beneficial antioxidant (once prescribed for my mouth ulcers) and a natural preservative, so it is not surprising that the Egyptians used it in embalming, believing it to be the scent of their gods’ immortal flesh, the flesh that was all of gold.

Hatshepsut had it recorded that she was herself semi-divine, conceived by the supreme god Amun. Her royal mother recognised the intrusive deity by the heavenly scent of myrrh emitted by his gilded skin. The legend of the phoenix originated or at any rate was elaborated in Egypt: the unique gold and crimson bird that lived for 500 years and nested in cinnamon, cassia, spikenard and myrrh, dieting on drops of frankincense. When the old bird died its offspring was said to enclose the corpse in an egg of pure myrrh and bring it for burial at the temple at Heliopolis, the former City of the Sun now prosaically incorporated into the suburbs of Greater Cairo.

Anyone who thrills to these old tales will love Papillon’s ANUBIS by perfumer Elizabeth Moores, a poem in perfume to the arcane beliefs of the ancient world. It is also very apt for Christmas by the way: as one of its central ingredients is – you’re sure to have guessed it! – myrrh, the gift brought by the Magi to presage Christ’s suffering and entombment. “Myrrh is mine / Its bitter perfume / Breathes a life of gathering gloom…” . And don’t forget that genial old Santa started life as St Nicholas of Myra, the city in modern Turkey where his sarcophagus was said to weep miraculous tears of sweet-scented myrrh resin: which is why the saint is now the official patron of perfumers and all things fragranced.

Anubis from Papillon Artisan Perfumes

Anubis from Papillon Artisan Perfumes

ANUBIS is not Liz Moore’s only scent – there are two other beauties – but it is perhaps the most exotic. Anubis was the god of embalming & mummification, the guardian of cemeteries, the conductor of souls to the afterlife. At the core of his perfume is absolute of pink Nile lotus, not flowery and pretty but dark, vegetal and virile like the vital sediment of the inundation which fertilised the green East Bank of the Nile. Then around this Liz wraps a series of powerful pungent oils, as intricately as the linen bandages swathing a dead monarch. One can almost hear the funerary priests in their black jackals’ head masks intoning the ritual names of benzoin, castoreum, opoponax, saffron, labdanum, tolu and sandalwood. There’s jasmine too, like the dried flower wreaths sometimes found by archaeologists in the tombs. ANUBIS is a precious and unique thrill: don’t start worrying that it might be a touch morbid – the Egyptians believed that all the joy they found in life would be redoubled after death. So with this scent: ANUBIS is an explosion of life-affirming energetic delights!

You can meet the wonderful Elizabeth Moores at our Seymour Place shop on Weds 10th December, alongside two other incredibly talented British perfumers.

 

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From Blackpool to Havana.

Sarah McCartney

Sarah McCartney of 4160 Tuesdays

I am dotty about What I Did On My Holidays, Sarah McCartney‘s preservation of past summers like so many flies in sweet-smelling amber. Highly original, devastatingly pretty: here’s an elegant scent that’s cunning and clever, amusing, witty and a treat to wear. A jeu d’esprit, a tonic, a irresistible pick-me-up even on the weariest, wettest and wickedest of August days. WIDOMH is a hand-tinted picture postcard album of seaside nostalgia; what Charlie Drake used to call “a world of toffee and tears”. Take a pierrot line of melting Neapolitan ices, creamy whorls of dusty pink, pistachio, gold and vanilla. Then fold in green cucumbery notes of sea breeze, rock pools and crab teas; pink sticky watch-your-fillings peppermint rock; coconut suntan oil from the pre-SPF era; and the yellow haze of sunshine filtered through Bank Holiday traffic fumes and serenaded by the melancholy Sunday afternoon chimes of the Mr Softee van. Does this have you reaching for your purse? I’ll take two, please!

What I Did On My Holidays

What I Did On My Holidays

Holiday memories are the sharpest, because one is living out of the ordinary for a week or two; and because the camera that we all carry with us is so tuned up by anticipation to snap a sharp succession of new experiences. I used to hate those intrusive essays demanded on the return to school: “What I Did on My Holidays” seemed absolutely no one’s business but my own. Yet, here are 4160 Tuesdays and I sharing these long-ago experiences, caught in this extraordinary scent which smells elusive, heart-tugging and hilarious in turn. It has a whiff of that most comical and grotesque of trips, Dora Bryan and Robert Stephens lugging a sullen Rita Tushingham (“be nice to him, love, he’s brought you chocolates”) along Blackpool Pier in A Taste of Honey. And it has the melancholy dreamy beauty of a faded water colour in an old bedroom looking out to sea, a room I’ve not seen for more than half a century; where if I stood on top of the water tank I could just about make out the grey waves and the sand dunes away across the marshes.”

I wrote the above two summers ago and my love affair with 4160 Tuesdays and the ineffable creator has proved far from a brief holiday romance. I am fathoms deep in love. Sarah McCartney has not only brilliant eccentric talent, but you sense that she has the most enormous fun in creating her perfumes: she appears to get a hell of a kick out of her own products and this I find quite irresistible in an over-serious world. Sarah’s scents are full of joy and wit; laughter, memory, imagination and fantasy – all those things that we perfume-pickers constantly reference as fundamental foundations of a great fragrance. She composes like a bold Fauvist painter – using brilliant gemmy colours; great bold strokes camouflaging insightful subtlety. Sarah is eclectic, weaving all kinds of symbols, totems, allusions and glittering ephemera into a magical web: she is the Shena Mackay of fragrance, a mordant mistress of illusion. 4160 is a wardrobe of highly sophisticated scents which one can also play with – in the same way that Carl Faberge’s jewels are also the most fantastic toys ever made.

Two more crackers have just arrived at Les Senteurs – The Dark Heart of Havana and Doe in the Snow. Now the first is a riff on Carmen Miranda, Hemingway, Zarah Leander in “Cuba Cubana” – everything you ever heard about desire and indulgence and stifled laughter in the starry tropics. It takes me back to the sodden New Year of 1968 and flying off to Bermuda to visit my aunt, house-sitting in a pearly villa surrounded by groves of grapefruit which we kids noshed straight from the tree. We sipped the unheard-of delicacy of rum and cokes on the pink shell beaches, my mother bought a fabulous pair of tortoiseshell Raybans and it was fairyland after shopping for school uniforms in gritty downtown Leicester. But the best bit of all was the arrival, stepping off the BOAC flight into warm balmy midnight air and the Hamilton terminal full of scarlet hibiscus, mauve oleander and a battery of new and unknown smells. We went crazy, like dogs pursuing aniseed or sex. “Havana” brings it all back. My heart wells up at all the green and marmaladey peachy citrus, the soft brown sugar, the tobacco (Aunty’s 60-a-day Lucky Strikes – or Craven A if available), the first properly made coffee we’d ever tasted. And encircling everything like a lei, the waxy spicy floral scents of Prospero’s island.

Doe In The Snow was originally created for the intellectual perfume connoisseur’s Dream Girl, She-Who-Needs-No-Introduction: Miss Odette Toilette. Like all masterpieces of bespoke fragrance Doe catches its subject to perfection, an insightful and moving portrait in scent. So maybe it’s partly because I love Odette so well that this bottled avatar enthralls me: Sarah McCartney writes that she “stirred woods, fruits and flowers with an icicle” – like the wand of the Snow Queen. Doe is all about contrasts and illusions, a Dance of the Seven Veils which discreetly retains a final diaphanous drapery and a pellucid enigma. Classic Paris notes of oak moss and jasmine contrast with frosty yuzu, peach aldehyde and creamy-golden tonka. To me, Doe In The Snow has something of the great scent-stars of the past about it – murmurs of Mitsouko, Ma Griffe and Femme: a generous, all-embracing hommage to the chypres, that smallest, most select and genuinely glamorous of fragrance families. And how about a medal for the name, too!

I’ll finish as I began by revisiting an earlier appreciation of 4160 Tuesdays, this time a salute to The Lion Cupboard. Sarah named this wonderful scent after her father’s personal treasure cupboard – it’s redolent of tooth powder, cashmeres and silk scarves laid up in herbs against the moth, dark fragrant woods, leather-bound diaries, half-forgotten colognes and the assurance of the past. Mint, juniper oil, aniseed, patchouli and lavender on the shelves are as transient but powerful as memories, regrets and reminiscences. The ideal perfume for winter hibernation, comfort and reflection: what the best-dressed polar bear is wearing this Christmas!

You can smell all of the fragrances from 4160 Tuesdays, as well as have the chance to chat with Sarah McCartney, on Wednesday 10th December at our Festive Soiree!

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Handbags

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And before we even start, I’m telling you now I am not going to mention Dame Edith Evans.

There was a most fascinating and wonderful inspirational speaker on the radio the other day from the University of Kent. Professor Julia Twigg (with Christina Buse) has made a study of the role and significance of handbags in the lives of elderly women with dementia; examining how life may contract to the expressions of personality and memory centring on a bag as the mind slowly loses its own ability to carry information and characteristics. Meanwhile, a cherished friend of the bosom from the world of scent writes of how she sees her vast collection of bags as extensions of herself, never just as objects or accessories. A very good reason (as with a perfume wardrobe) why she needs so many.

I have always admired the idea of a bag because I like to have a great many companionable things to hand at all times: practical stuff like glasses, keys, Polos, pens and painkillers. And also the more talismanic items such as family photos (“ancestor worship”), favourite postcards & books, scent, amulets against the Evil Eye, paper ikons, medallions and so on. So I cart all this about in a series of nylon and plastic carriers from the supermarket; or latterly in a rather smart orange canvas bag provided at a perfume conference. As with shoes I’ve never had much luck in finding a smart bag not too egregious for elderly male use; I don’t want one of those leather patchwork things in shades of maroon, magenta and dung. In any case, I think the assemblage and presentation of a decent handbag is above all a female and feminine art.

Women’s bags are much more imaginatively designed, coloured and all the rest of it. They have the added advantage of smelling delicious: and not just when a bottle of Shalimar, Giorgio or Fidgi has disastrously leaked therein. Or so I have always found during rare forays into bags when left in charge briefly by intimate friends and relations, or asked to delve in to find a pair of spectacles. When very small I was devoured by curiosity as to what was inside these bags, an itch which landed me in very hot water as “little boys NEVER EVER look in ladies’ bags!” Many years later I read some piece of popular psychology which claimed that boys who peer into handbags most generally grow up into lifelong bachelors. An extraordinary thing to say!

But my grandmother always encouraged my natural inquisitiveness and it was in her bag that I learned to appreciate that delicious texture and scent of worn soft leather, silk, suede, pressed face powder, wispy lawn hankies, sweet waxy lipstick, 10 Players, burned matches and money. Paper money (rather greasy) and old coppers used to have a very definite smell, not so much now that cash changes hands quicker. Then there were all these little folders and inner pockets and secret compartments, zipped and popped and studded and buttoned; and filled with looking glasses, bills and well-worn letters and lists – ” tonic water, lettuce, library, frozen peas”. Really I suppose my grandmother was of the first generation of women to need a bag. Before the turn of the 20th century the folds of ladies’ ample skirts were full of pockets; keys were kept on a chatelaine; no decent female admitted to smoking or making up. There was no need for a bag. Hankies and cachous were tucked into bangles, up sleeves or into the decolletage or muff. The most a girl needed was a tiny mesh purse for pin money.

Miss Nathalie Lecroc has made a good living illustrating the contents of bags; as varied as their owners, her pictures are riveting to pore over. Various perfumers have produced candles which imitate the scent of a good handbag but I think no one has made a wearable perfume to wear which performs the trick. Having said this, I have always found during our lengthy relationship that Caron’s seductive Parfum Sacre is divinely “sac a main” in style. According to Caron lore it is a blend of their notorious Poivre and the swooning Fete des Roses. What I smell is the most expensive suede evening bag with faintly damp rose-scented face powder spilled on a thick silk lining with accents of cinnamon, coriander, amber and musk oozing in from crimson-nailed hands soaked in a lifetime of scented oils. Irresistible.