Plagued by smells

 

Awoke on Sunday morning to the delightful sound and smell of soft refreshing purging rain. The baked-up fields and gardens need water like mad after this unnaturally dry spring: so does the air. Wherever I go, I meet folk afflicted by coughs, respiratory congestion, catarrh and choking fits. The atmosphere is thick with pollen, dust and a creeping pollution: eyes and noses are streaming. The wonky weather doesn’t help, lurching from the icy blast of a north wind to sultry closeness: and all within twenty-four hours. May – theoretically one of the most blushingly romantic of months – can be the very devil in practice. There is nothing crueller than a piercingly cold Bank Holiday afternoon: and all your winter wardrobe prematurely packed away. ‘Ne’er cast a clout’, indeed.

In our spanking new and surreal 21st century London – now rebuilt for perhaps the third time since 1945 –  we occasionally stumble into a jarring electric reminder of our origin of species. Something stimulates our animal senses. We are yanked back into a brief realised memory of how the capital once smelt. The yellow bronchial fogs have long gone; so has the smoke. The smell of hot horse and equine manure¤- once ubiquitous – is limited to the parades of Royal State occasions and early morning cavalry exercise in Rotten Row. It is years since I saw anyone relieve himself in the street.

Discarded food, however, lies about in profusion: this was something you used not to see. It would be snapped up by stray dogs and cats (now completely vanished) or by the totally destitute. The other morning I came across – and not for the first time – an entire abandoned meal laid out on a cafe terrasse. Smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee all complete – cooling yet still fragrant in the morning air. Abandoned, barely touched, like that last breakfast aboard the ‘Mary Celeste’. The poor customer’s heart must have failed him at the last. ‘Fain would I eat/ Yet fear I to fall.’ You imagine all sorts of scenarios: an anxious stomach in knots finally undone by the smell of the meal. Eggs with salmon are very potent – and the ashtray was brimming with butts.

For what you do still find everywhere in the capital – so you must pick your way through the streets – is evidence of weak stomachs. I saw someone being suddenly and terribly sick at a railway station the other day. The effluvia was fluorescently blue and purple. What can he have been eating or drinking? A diet of fake news and fake food.

And, of course, we now have vapes: gushing clouds of perfumed ghostly steam. I have just finished Daniel Defoe’s Journal Of The Plague Year, written in 1722, but describing the last visitation of bubonic plague to London 57 years before. Defoe lived through the Great Plague as a child in Cripplegate. I think the vapes would  seem kind of familiar to him though he might mistake their purpose. For he writes of terrified Londoners with sticks of rue rammed up their noses and herbs held in their mouths; citizens doused in vinegar fumes¤¤; ever-burning braziers of woods and oils to smoke out infection and disperse the miasma of plague.

“….in Aldgate Church, in a pew full of people, on a sudden one fancied she smelt an ill smell. Immediately she fancies the plague was in the pew…”

Everyone rushes out of church, and when they again foregather the worshippers have taken precautions, filling their “..mouths with one preparation or another”.

In an age when sickness was thought – quite logically, really – to be spread by smell¤¤¤, “the whole church was like a smelling-bottle; in one corner it was all perfumes; in another, aromatics, balsamics and variety of drugs and herbs; in another, salts and spirits, as every one was furnished for their own preservation”.

Because the infection did not break out in the Fleet, it was naively believed by Londoners that the smells of the shipyards “would preserve them”. Therefore they built great fragrant bonfires in the street and smoked the interiors of their houses with burning sulphur, pitch, oil of turpentine, rosin, cedar and brimstone.

Some survived, many perished. The huge irony in retrospect was that the true finish of the plague did indeed lie in the purification by flames. For in 1666 the Great Fire of London destroyed the old city and the warrens of rats’ nests where the infection bred. Plague never returned.  Defoe’s most haunting lines describe what might be seen when a victim of the sickness breathed “upon a piece of glass, where, the breath condensing, there might living creatures be seen…of strange, monstrous, and frightful shapes, such as dragons, snakes, serpents, and devils..”

Try spritzing some perfume on the bathroom mirror!

¤ Jumentuous: of, relating to, or smelling like the urine of a horse, from Latin jumentum, meaning a beast of burden, or ‘yoke-beast’, from jugum, a yoke
¤¤ Defoe writes of shop-keepers handing out the change from coins kept in a pot of vinegar. Our fishmonger favours this homely method of disinfectant today.

¤¤¤ My great grandfather Francis Braley (1844-1923), Chief Inspector of Nuisances for Leicester, still believed in miasma theory to some extent. So did his daughter, my grandmother.

Long Ago and Caraway…

 

Here we are again in the great season of asparagus, that timeless luscious
delicacy and supposed aphrodisiac. There was a big hoo-ha last month when the crop was blessed at Worcester Cathedral. A man was robed up in vegetable garb, and he pranced about as the Spirit of the Asparagus. For some this was much too pagan, with hints of The Green Man, the Great God Pan and Druidical nature worship. I’d imagine, too, that – in the subconscious at least – the carnal associations of the crop bothered some critics. I’m talking about the way asparagus supposedly promotes physical passion: its phallic symbolism; the role it played at Roman orgies; and the way it smells.

Jilly Cooper once remarked on how the unmistakable whiff of asparagus always hangs around the geography of great country houses at this time of year. It lingers in bodily fluids as strongly and evidently as beetroot or garlic. Indeed, the smell of older woodier asparagus has a definite similarity to that of the starry-flowered wild garlic: pungent, smoky, spicy, a suggestion of fried onions. That potent bruising highly-invasive odour is such a virile and piquant contrast to the faery-ferns of asparagus foliage. These are the delicate and feathery fronds that one used to see in wedding boutonnieres¤. The little Carr girls, if you’ll remember, used asparagus boughs to build an airy bower for the dreadful Imogen Clark in ‘What Katy Did’. And despite its luxurious reputation – and ludicrous prices in some fine-dining eateries – asparagus is not hard to grow. We had a great bed of it at home in the old days, laid down in the 1940’s if not before. My father chucked on a bit of manure; the cats sunbathed there; the crop came up year after year in full force. Pagan in its profusion!

So why not bless the sweet asparagus? The ceremony can do nothing but good. No doubt the heathen vegetable will benefit from some spiritual taming just as Edwardian hostesses tried to refine it at table by handling it with tongs.

Also on my larder shelf this week is a jar of caraway¤¤ seeds. When I was young every decent household seemed to have a caraway seed cake ‘on cut’. Cakes then were not the screechingly sweet sugar-goo mountains so ubiquitous today. ‘That’s not cake, duck: that’s gateau’, we were told in shops. You made seed cake with the old dry rub-in method. This largely went out when every cook demanded an electric mixer¤¤¤. Seed cake was generally rather dry and crumbly: it went well with very strong, very hot tea or – traditionally at a funeral – with a glass of sherry. Beatrix Potter and Charlotte Bronte both celebrated it. It smelled of caraway’s cousin, fragrant aniseed: the scent that supposedly drives dogs crackers – though growing up in a veterinary household I never saw evidence of this. And my father used to come home laden with seed cakes; his favourite thing at tea time. My aunt made a classic version; and there were fans baking cakes for him in every farmhouse kitchen

 

 

Pa would sometimes ask for dark marmalade to be stirred into the mixture; or he simply spread on his own Cooper’s Oxford at table. The unusually luxurious version of seed cake given in The Constance Spry Cook Book (1956) calls for five eggs, candied orange peel, freshly grated nutmeg¤¤¤¤, brandy and ‘a handful’ of sugared caraway comfits. Imagine the heavenly fragrance of that little beauty, cooling from the oven in shades of copper and amber and gold! The sort of cake that used to make old-fashioned tea parties so giggly.

Sixty years ago, old village ladies used impossibly vulgar nicknames for caraway seeds which will not be repeated here. But, culinary-wise, caraway is so versatile. The seeds perk up a boiled cabbage, go good with roast potatoes – and with spuds in their jackets. Let the potato bake almost through; cut it in half; dip the cut ends in a mixture of olive oil, salt, pepper and caraway. Then return to oven until the crust is crisp. The aroma of caraway is improved and strengthened by soaking, baking or otherwise cooking. The seeds are good to chew, too. This was the invariable habit of the Baroness Lehzen, the young Queen Victoria’s gouvernante. For years Lehzen’s presence in the royal palaces would be heralded by a redolence of breath-sweetening caraway and a faint clicking noise, as of a canary or budgerigar pecking away. It was Prince Albert’s abomination of this habit, as much as his resentment at Lehzen’s influence on the Queen, that persuaded him to be rid of her once and for all.

Years ago, at the start of a Harrods Winter Sale, a beautiful Irish girl who looked like Ingrid Bergman said to me in the canteen:

“We have to EAT our way through this terrible time!”

Let’s eat and SMELL our way through the Election period! Caraways, asparagus and what you will.

¤ an unintended fertility symbol?

¤¤ isn’t ‘caraway’ a romantic word? Makes me think of Coramandel screens, Ronald Firbank characters, Edith Sitwell and her ‘Gold Coast Customs’.

¤¤¤ remember the tv ad with Maria Charles? ‘Don’t make yourself a slave, darling! Get him to buy you a mixer like your mother’s.’ Tempi passat.

¤¤¤¤ mildly mood-enhancing, as you know.

The Pyjama Game

 

Maybe you enjoyed a “pyjama day” over the recent Bank Holiday or even last weekend? There’s been a lot of talk recently about parents in pyjamas picking up their children from school; or even shopping in jim-jams. In my innocence (as Mrs Mary Whitehouse used to say) I imagined pyjama days to be marked by an immaculate cleanliness. I had thought you showered and bathed upon arising; then slipped into a fresh suit of night attire in which to lounge all day, free of all belts, ties, stays and restraining fastenings. But according to a recent piece in The Times, this is not so. You simply wake up, hop out of bed and start living – in what Carol Midgley calls your “bed-stink”. In effect, your own filth.

It’s a nasty brutish expression, one that as a child I’d have been very much discouraged from using. But there you are. Now I begin to understand why headmasters and supermarket managers are not so keen on pyjama culture. It’s all a far cry from those beds of roses & spices we discussed on this page a while back. However, unless you are one of those persons – about a sixth of the population we regularly told – who change their bed sheets (and/or jim-jams) only quarterly, I can’t really see why there should be any disagreeable smell at all. A slight warm fug, maybe. Surely nothing more. Anyway, this week we were again warned of the obvious by the medical faculty: that lolling about is bad for you. It weakens your muscles, your mind and all that. “Wake up – dress up – and live!” – as Alice Faye used to sing: kind of.

Shall we move on? It’s not an especially pretty topic.

We had fine company to luncheon last week. The kitchen was filled with the delicious smells of home-made kedgeree, tarte au citron¤, parsley, cardamon, coriander, basil and ripe tomatoes. I can say this with modesty as it was my gifted brother who cooked it all for our dear cousin. She said, “I adore kedgeree but never make it as I cannot get the smell out of the house.” And this is true. You must fall back on the old trick – geography of the house permitting – of opening back and front doors simultaneously and letting the air rush through, as fresh water gushed through the stench of the Augean stables.

On the table I placed a blue pot of cream freesias. Freesias have changed – or I have. Probably both. They look the same; the colours – white, saffron, mauve, plum – remain constant. But the scent is far less penetrating. When my brother was born in 1960 my mother’s maternity bower was crammed with them – the month was March. The hospital room was as heavily perfumed as Audrey Hepburn’s gloriously floral railway compartment¤¤ in The Nun’s Story. Consequently my mother was never able to look another freesia in the eye – nor to abide their scent – for the next half century.

Today the odour is – it seems to me – far more subtle. Airier, faintly spicy, much less honeyed. The Easter freesias smelled faintly reminiscent of the famous JASMIN ET CIGARETTES: I detected a whiff of very dry papery tobacco, a trace of pepper. None of that suffocating fruity-floral cushiony sweetness and opulence of yore. I should of course have taken note of Country of Origin on the wrapping. The last truly pungent freesias I remember came from Guernsey: I fetched them back myself about 12 years ago.

The irony is, the blooms we smell today are much more like the ‘freesia accord’ we inhale from so many modern perfumes. Ergo, an impressionistic appreciation of the plant, not an extraction or a reproduction. Life once more continues to imitate art.

And talking of which: I don’t know whether this is an example of the synaesthesic mind or just fanciful reverie but, this ‘Snap Election’, now. The mental image the phrase conjures up is that of a fragrant dish of sugar-snap peas, just shown a pan of boiling water: steamed, buttered, minted and brought to table. Brilliantly fluorescently emerald; smelling divinely of crisp greenery, goodness and springtime.

Will it really be like that?

Finally, as I finish this, my Tube train pulls into Kings Cross and there’s a funny poster pasted up in the tunnel:

“Sushi tastes even better in your pyjamas.”

Which is where we came in.

¤ 4 unwaxed lemons are called for.

¤¤ Brussels-bound from the pre-War Congo.

“Are The Feets In?” – Garbo

Guy Bourdin

 

‘How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince’s daughter!’¤

 

Lemon Wedge can’t help noticing what  a powerful visual role a person’s footwear plays in political and social characterisation. Mrs May’s kitten heels, Gandhi’s sandals, Fascist jackboots, Eva Peron’s armadillo court shoes, Harold Wilson’s Hush Puppies. Barefoot, we are all brought down to earth. Once shod, we step into character, and step out with assurance. There are captains of finance and industry who cut visitors down to size by demanding that they remove their shoes before entering penthouse offices. Remember Mad Men and the boss’s precious corporate carpet? And there’s a scene in ‘Old Acquaintance’ (1943) which a downright literary Bette Davis plays barefoot, and wearing a pyjama jacket. This seems brave for the era, even faintly shocking. Many an actor has claimed that finding the right shoe is vital for the definition of a role. As Louise Brooks once explained in that wonderful high swooping voice:

 

“Out of the character comes the movement; and out of the movement comes the dialogue…”

 

Did you happen to see all that fuss about Kellyanne Conway kneeling on a White House sofa without first kicking off her shoes ? I was fascinated by the vociferous volume of the Press reaction. I have always been repelled by the way that, in modern movies and soap operas, men and women throw themselves on couches and beds while still wearing their street shoes¤¤. You take a look at them clicking about in “East Enders”, bringing indoors all the muck and stink of London. No one says a thing. But poor old Kellyanne in the Oval Office really got it in the neck.

 

Why won’t folk automatically slip off their footwear when they come indoors in an expression of hygiene and courtesy? Some people no doubt resent losing height, poise and posture – but I suspect that the real reluctance is due to a worry that the feet may smell. This not only risks causing offence but also reveals the visitor’s true animal nature in a very uncompromising way. (Think of Red Riding Hood and that Wolf in the bed – “All the better to smell you with, my dear”). I wonder if the old Norse myth about the disastrous marriage of mountain goddess Skaoi and the hoary weird sea god Njoror references this fear. Skaoi had to choose her husband by his feet alone. She saw and smelled such a dazzling pair of flower-feet beneath a curtain that she could imagine them belonging only to Baldur the Beautiful, Master of the Sun.

 

But she got it so wrong.

 

We treat our feet cruelly. For three score years and ten we swaddle them in socks and tights. We jam them like hermit crabs into those curiously wrought shells and cases which we call shoes. I notice increasingly numbers of men tottering along Oxford Street as though their business shoes are far too tight. We teeter and balance our considerable height and weight upon our poor trotters for a lifetime. No wonder feet complain and weep tears of sweat.

 

You should pardon the expression if I mention the egregiously esoteric appeal of the bound lily feet of old China. Evidently it was not only the tiny size that had man-appeal. It was the odour of deformed bone-crushed feet that had been trussed up in bandages throughout the years of growth.

 

I was always told never to wear the same pair of shoes two days running; and to change them during the day. Keep a spare pair in the workplace for after lunch when the feet begin to swell. I remember the foot-baths at school; wouldn’t it be lovely to have them – or a foot spa – at the shop? It is a heavenly feeling to soak your feet – far more refreshing than dabbling your hands; more like bathing your face.

 

Right up until 1688 the Kings of England washed the feet of the deserving poor on Maundy Thursday. William III briskly abolished this custom and to date it has not been revived. There is much mention of the washing of feet in the Christian Gospels: it was a hospitable ritual offered to honoured guests and it became a metaphor for Christ’s Ministry: “The Master of All is the Servant of All”. This was a subject I remember very well being told off to draw at school and at Sunday classes. For example, at the supper at Bethany at the house of SS. Martha and Mary:

 

“Mary therefore took a pound of ointment of spikenard, very precious, and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped his feet with her hair: and the house was filled with the odour of the ointment……..Jesus therefore said, Suffer her to keep it against the day of my burying…”¤¤¤

 

Smells and perfumes: omnipotent, beautiful – but sometimes ominous.

 

¤ The Song of Solomon 7:1

¤¤ things were different in the old days. Remember Margaret Diamond taking off her pumps and placing them on the coffee table in ‘Victim’ (196I)? Then, of course, shoe removal on-screen often indicated some sort of covert sexual activity.

¤¤¤ S.John 12:3,7.

Crowning Glory

 

It’s spring in all but the official calendar. The rooks have returned. Both flora and fauna have begun to go wild with excitement. For the past week the air has felt milder, softer, full of energy. Even us olfactorily-challenged humans can perceive and smell delicate and wonderful new scents. So, what myriads of odours beyond our ken can be driving the natural kingdom crazy with the desire to bloom and procreate? A word of warning: this time of year can be very risky, exceedingly precarious. You may find yourself simultaneously galvanised and drained by spring fever. It’s fatally easy to overdo, as new tingling air powers you up and consequently sends you right over the top. And what comes up must infallibly come down.

 

The wonderful Iraqi Kurdish barbers who used to have a shop round the corner from me always said that at home everyone was bled in March, to drain all the corrupt and exhausted winter blood. We used to do the same in this country up to a couple of centuries ago. Should we keep some leeches in a jar downstairs at Les Senteurs? I feel that I at least could benefit from their action. Imagine the relief of drawing off all the stale air, darkness and fug of winter. It would be the corporeal equivalent of laundering one’s entire wardrobe – and the new blood would smell as sweet as a nut.

 

In spring, those old indoor smells which seemed so cosy in the frozen mid-winter now appear frowsty, drab and unclean like the miasma of a serially unmade and rumpled bed. I was rummaging around in Oxfam the other day and I found this gaudy – but very pretty – little tin box all stuck about with pink and violet sequins. When I lifted the lid, it was to find the box stuffed full of human hair. I was absolutely repelled. Such an intrusion of mortality it was, somehow; so intimate and inappropriate on a breezy fresh morning. I cannot tell whether I really smelled oil and sebum or whether it was the power of imagination; but I clapped on the glittering lid like lightning, made an excuse and left the store.

 

I remember the late Elizabeth Jane Howard comparing the odour of a greasy unwashed scurfy head to that of cheap raspberry jam. Both my grandmothers had cut glass pots with silver lids all over their dressing tables. All their contemporaries did. When the ladies had brushed their hair they would pull out the combings from the bristles and stuff them into a pot. This nosey little boy was told that this operation was for the benefit of the birds: to provide them with warm silky linings for their nests. No doubt by the 1950’s this was so. I have since read, however, that in the days when every woman had (infrequently washed) hair to her waist, the combings were collected to be eventually woven into false fronts, falls and the like. These would augment those elaborate nineteenth century coiffures – and of course match their owners’ hair colour and texture perfectly.

 

In our own day of wash-and-go thrice-daily showering all this can seem a bit grubby. Hair can smell quite wonderful – and erotic, too. But we’ve come to think that hair – like everything else to do with our persons and our daily routines – needs always to be squeaky clean to be found attractive. A less than pristine smell nowadays is evidence of the loathly Beast in Man. Especially hair, which is all too akin to fur and the growth of which is therefore encouraged only upon the human head.  Maybe this is why – in the niche sector at least – “dirty” animalic perfumes are currently so perversely popular. It’s a natural reaction to all the disinfecting. Les Senteurs customers go mad for MUSC TONKIN, SALOME and the more advanced and spectacular ouds in our collect.

 

For the less uninhibited, we have some gorgeous hair products to tempt you. Girls who model themselves on Snow White and Rose Red should try the following delectable duo. CARNAL FLOWER Hair Mist creates the illusion that you are crowned with invisible tuberoses. The spicy rosy raptures of PORTRAIT OF A LADY are now available in an oil for both body and hair. And all those who long to lay their weary heads on a pillow of rose buds should invest in a flacon of DANS MON LIT linen spray.

 

In her later years my grandmother produced a curious little rose gold ring which had belonged to her own mother. It looked like a decayed tooth, really – a fragment of shadowy convex glass surrounded by black and crumbling seed pearls. It was worn almost to pieces. It was said to contain human hair, presumably that of my four great aunts and uncles who had died in infancy. My mother had a horror of the thing: she said it was extremely unlucky to preserve hair. I have the ring still. Sometimes I wonder – if it should finally crack from side to side and the web fly wide – just what smells from 150 years ago would emerge…

Imitation of Life

 

I have been brought a wonderful gift from the other side of the world. A dear friend has been vacationing in Grenada, one of the Lesser Antilles, the Windward Islands that fall like a shower of shooting stars into the western Caribbean. On the map, Grenada is one of a string of jewels that form a crescent moon sparkling in the sea between Puerto Rico and South America.

 

And my present is gem-like too. It is a lei or necklace made of the principal wealth of Grenada: sweet-smelling spices. My garland is about 36″ long and structured with seeds, tiny gourds and a few scarlet beads strung on thread. But the principal glory of the necklace lies in its scent. Between the beads, as on a rosary, are strung larger ornaments: dried spices, cut and shaped like weird precious stones. Gnarled pebbles of root ginger, cloves like tiny fingers of black coral, bay leaves folded in the shape of fairy envelopes. There are pieces of cinnamon and whole nutmegs dabbed and daubed with painted raindrops. There are bits of pimento and sweety-buttery tonka and little twisty whirls which I have yet to identify. Possibly they are the arils of nutmeg which, when dried, become golden mace.

 

The magic of the thing…the perfume! The concept is so simple: the effect is so stunning. As I write I have the necklace hanging by my bed. It could be worn round the neck, but it is fragile. I might wear it on summer evenings to come, while sitting quiet and still in the garden. I’m thinking it would permeate my clothes, as it has the green and white cotton bag in which it travelled back to London. For now the string of treasures is suspended where it can catch the nearly-spring breeze from the window and boost my sleep hygiene.

 

The whole room is now gently but emphatically suffused by a sweet warm fragrance which seems to be gradually and deliciously invading the entire house. I am told that, as and when the spices start to fade, their scent can be revived by spraying them with a little warm water as one does with pot pourri.(Or I do, at any rate: it seems to work).

 

I wonder for how many centuries these wonderful necklaces have been made. For ever, I guess. In the West, too, we know that hollow or porous beads have often been used as perfume vehicles. Women in the ancient world filled clay beads with scent and hung them in their hair or their ears; or stitched them to their clothing. Marie Stuart went to the scaffold wearing a golden perforated rosary stuffed with ambergris: the odour of the sanctity of Catholic martyrdom.

 

Les Senteurs is filled with ‘les oiseaux des îles’: a flight of exotic fragrances that are inspired by various islands. They combine two contradictory yet complementary kinds of magic – a world in miniature surrounded by (usually) warm seas, plus an olfactory experience without limits.

 

“As on our shelves your beauteous eyes you bend”¤, your nose will whisk you off to Capri, the Virgin Islands, Corsica, Île Poupre, Sicily, the Seychelles and Jamaica. Revel in our stock of chypre perfumes, all paying homage to Cyprus the birthplace of Aphrodite. The goddess of love and desire was born from the waves of the Mediterranean and blown ashore at Cyprus in an aura of roses and spice.

 

“No man is an island”. Our entwined scents bring us all together in harmony. Further bonding may be achieved by a generous tot of aromatic Spiced Gold Rum – “a smooth warm spirit with rounded flavours of vanilla”. It tastes just the same as my necklace smells.

 

Cheers!

¤ with apologies to Susan M. Coolidge

Making An Impression

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Last week I talked about those who wear scent in the hope of earning a compliment. Since then I’ve been thinking about the application of perfume in order to make one’s mark; not quite the same thing, though sometimes the two conditions may coincide.

Years ago there used to be seen around Town a spry little old lady who habitually wore a large grey hat, shaped, coloured and textured like a mushroom. In the shade of its wide felt brim her deep-set eyes were shadowed in brilliant malachite green. It was she who told me that visitors found their way to her door merely by following the heavy trail of Shalimar across the city plains of cement. Another exotic, whose hair sprang from her head like a fountain, soaked herself and her furniture in Woods of Windsor’s Wild Orchid. Neither of these women sought compliments on their fragrance: but they used perfume to state their presence and to demand recognition. Not to define themselves, exactly; they were both very emphatic personalities. But perhaps scent was needed to bolster their confidence and even to provide company in a solitary existence. As someone said to me once of a cigarette, a bottle of perfume can be a little friend. (“You’re Never Alone With A Strand!”).

Both sexes will usually admit that they are not at all averse to compliments on their fragrance: any praise comes as a massive bonus to their own private enjoyment. But men and women approach this quest from a different viewpoint.

In the animal world, it is the male who marks his territory and defines his dominion by use of his bodily oils and secretions. His consequent and evident strength attracts a mate. The female uses her odour to allure this powerful partner. So when a man demands he be praised for his fragrance, is it actually an acknowledgement of his power, intellect and virility that he is seeking? A woman on the other hand wants simply to be loved for herself and for her delicious aura.

After a lapse of almost two centuries modern men can’t seem get enough of perfume. Here’s a neat little paradox: nineteenth century males played down scent for fear of seeming effeminate¤. The man of today, “en revers”, emphasises his masculinity and beefs it up by wearing an appropriate fragrance, just as his warrior ancestors did 3,000 years ago. It was men after all who began the whole culture of scent, right back at the dawn of civilization.

So are we to think that men now demand more perfume for themselves because of a current crisis in male confidence ? Could well be. Nearly 90 years ago a very comical little book came out¤¤ which described ‘A Wave of Beards’ settling over Europe in Elizabethan times. Presently the fashion died out and for at least 200 years Western men were clean-shaven. And then – significantly in the long emotional reign of Victoria – back the beard came, much heavier and thicker than before. And look at us now. Elizabeth II has celebrated her Emerald Jubilee and never was there such a wave of facial hair among her subjects. Same like the scent.

“Our sense of smell evolved in a very rich landscape” says Dr Kara Hoover, a professor of olfactory evolution¤¤¤. This global landscape is now spoiled by pollution of every kind which is in turn damaging our sense of smell. If we are all truly wild and bestial at heart, you can see how, in turn, this corruption of our most instinctive and basic animal sense can probably affect our gender identity too.

As our own dear Queen so often says
“It’s interesting, isn’t it!”

¤ but originally the word effeminate had a quite different meaning, describing the kind of men who ingratiated themselves with women the better to seduce them.

¤¤ ‘1066 and All That’ by W.C. Sellar and R.J. Yeatman:1930

¤¤¤ as reported in The Times last week.