O! The soft sweet golden glow of DRIES VAN NOTEN: all the tenderness of Christmas morning. Or the ferocious night-time sensuality of COLOGNE POUR LE SOIR, richly animalic like the rosy satin lining of a sable coat. The flowery dew of NOCTURNES, a rope of luminous pearls still warm from the wearer’s body. The dark sacred odour of the Christmas night stars in MYRRHIAD.
How privileged and fortunate am I to be Mrs LW, with all the treasures of the fragrance world at my husband’s generous disposal!
Why is perfume such a great gift? It is altogether timeless, both ancient and modern in its facility to become an integral part of you and your dreams. Imagine sitting up in bed on the Great Day in the darkness before dawn, with that curious magical feeling of uniqueness, and all of Christmas in the air, that still wonderful atmosphere that begins in early childhood and hopefully never quite dies away. It’s still there, if only for a minute or two: the world of carols, snow and Santa; of stuffed stockings, Margaret Tarrant Nativity picture books and infinite good will.
So there I shall be on the Day of Days, propped up in bed with a cup of hot sweet tea under my Princess Margaret apple green satin eiderdown wondering “Now, HOW shall we set about all this?” I agree with Elizabeth David and would prefer a light lunch of smoked salmon and champagne but Mr LW always says, “my dear, I shall give you The Works!” Indeed he is already below decks in the kitchen, manipulating the festive bird with deft hands and spatulas. Or apparently so, for suddenly he appears the foot of our bed, setting this intriguing package before me, exquisitely wrapped and ribboned. It feels wonderfully heavy and solid. For one awful moment I fear it might after all be a book or a set of table mats. But, no, its too square for that and too small. And there’s a faint juddering when i shake the parcel indicating the presence of a bottle. My lovely Mr LW has done it again, for sure. “Careful, now..”, he says. He adjusts my pillows a trifle and sits beside me to watch my face.
Shall I daintily pick off the wrappings like a finicking archaeologist and put them aside for use again? Or open my present in one glorious wasteful rip, yanking off all the tussore, grosgrain and glitter like James Mason pawing at Margaret Lockwood’s stomacher? I tear the coverings asunder, loving the explosion of cracklings, rustlings and rendings. And there it is. Surely nothing beats the thrill of a luxuriously crafted box in black, red or white; then easing off the perfectly fitting lid to discover a jewel-like flacon filled with … with?…well, with every possibility and infinite variety under the sun.
You can choose perfume every Christmas for a lifetime and the fulfilment and excitement never palls. The joy of a new bottle of scent – whether it’s a signature, an old favourite or a suprise novelty – never dates, never stales. It promises infinite riches, experience and adventure. It’s like being born all over again, especially when you’re lying in bed spraying lavishly from a big now bottle, immersed in your own dream world.
But where is LW? Eager, I hope, to be thanked in a suitable manner. Not at all: gone below and making with the goose fat and roast spuds. My treasure!”
Entre nous, this year I’m giving her the sweet and sultry broken blossoms of Kilian’s GOOD GIRL GONE BAD. Our little private joke.
But say nothing!