Truly, Madly, Deeply

Have you ever been driven to absurd extremes to get your mitts on a perfume? I have.

Ninety minutes. There and back.

That’s how long it would take me to travel from my desk at the Telegraph Magazine in Canary Wharf to Harrods’ Black Hall fragrance department, make the purchase and dash straight back in time for the features meeting. Seven stops on the Jubilee, two on the Piccadilly, then a 15-minute in-and-out. Could I make it? Damn right I could. It was 2002, I was 22 and I could trot with gusto. In a kitten heel.

Waiting in line at the canteen that morning, I’d got a whiff of something – parma violets, talcum powder, granny’s handbag… holy mother of GOD what is that? The girl in front of me smelt so heart-stoppingly delicious I absolutely had to know what it was.

‘Balenciaga Le Dix’, she said.

I’d never heard of it but I needed it. Today. Right now. My shins felt tingly and weak, like I’d just had a shot of tequila. Powdery perfumes have been one of my favourite scent profiles since, well, forever, having been brought up in a childhood haze of Shalimar and Giorgio Beverly Hills, and I do think those early olfactive core memories give us a deeply-rooted scented satnav directing us to what we love today as adults.

This was over 20 years ago, but I remember so many details about that morning. I made up something about meeting a PR for a launch event (I texted my pal Anna at Clinique asking her to cover my back in case my boss called), grabbed by handbag and flew. Literally flew. Fidgeting on my tube seat like a toddler needing a wee and bolting through the tunnels from one line to the next, out I emerged at Knightsbridge tube station with an electrifying buzz. After snaking through luxury accessories and sunglasses, there it was: the Black Hall - nowhere near the headachey medieval meat market it is today, but a calm, curated oasis of elegant fragrance houses. This was pre-smartphone era and online perfume shopping didn't exist yet, so Harrods was the only place I could think of that might possibly stock Balenciaga.

They did. ‘Over by the corner Madam.’ ohmygoodgod.

There she was. A tall, golden bottle, proudly bevelled like a Victorian townhouse with a fluted dome lid and a chic little label. She was more beautiful than I’d imagined. Grown up but modern. Enticing but composed.

I sprayed the blotter, irrationally nervous it wouldn’t be the same scent, but - WOW - that aldehydic, powdery cloud hit me like a ton of bricks and I’m absolutely sure my eyes rolled fully back into their sockets.

A rush of euphoria shot up and I felt tears build up. For the first time in my life I was, quite simply, consumed by a scent. Perhaps because I’d lost my granny the year before and she’d have loved this fragrance. Perhaps because I was being bullied at work by the Style Director and it was the polar opposite scent to what she liked (cold, clean, citrussy, boring) and she could never steal this from me. There are all sort of reasons why it tipped me over the edge, but really it was the sheer shock of experiencing that unicorn moment where every molecule of scent slots into your body’s emotional and physical jigsaw, activating your soul to flood out of your skin with a magical neon glow.

I can't remember how much the bottle cost but it was definitely under a hundred pounds. I was making a measly £150-a-week in that job, but thankfully I lived at home so I could treat myself.

I love what Le Dix did to me and how it made me feel, like a ring-pull releasing the condensed and squeezed anxieties of work-life with all the fizzy velocity of a high-pressure canister. It felt delicious. It felt addictive. And it did indeed become an addiction.

I wore Le Dix solidly until my bottle ran out, then I bought four more when I spotted it on a sales shelf in the Harrods’ January sales. Little did I know that bargain luck signified an imminent and cruel death, and it was discontinued shortly after. I still have one bottle left, pictured below, and it still smells spectacular.

My cherished bottle of Balenciaga Le Dix, which I store in a cold, dark cupboard and occasionally sniff the nozzle. It still smells perfect.

The puff of tingling aldehydes is still there, as is the blurry talcum powder and whispery iris. It’s gone a bit boozy after all these years, but I don’t mind; it makes it extra nostalgic and dreamy.

My race from E14 to SW1 was, in hindsight, rather absurd but, as Albert Camus once wrote, absurdity is what gives us our joy for living. A great perfume should make you do absurd things.

I once sprayed my hair with Laura Mercier L’Heure Magique, then tried to ‘seal’ it with 200-degree hair straighteners so it would penetrate deeper. It didn’t; and every time I used the straighteners thereafter my hair smelt like aggressively burnt popcorn.

When the bewitching, breathtaking Byredo Gypsy Water launched in 2008, I persuaded my then-editor to give it a full page feature, which meant I could hold the exclusive so far in advance that no other beauty journalist in the UK was allowed to smell it for two months. The perfume equivalent to the One Ring, she was my precious, I was infatuated, and I was not prepared to share.

‘I’ve done mad things because of perfume,’ says my friend Priya. ‘I was cheated on horribly in my 30s; before I threw him out I laid out all of his clothes, work suits, ties, boxers and socks on the bed and sprayed half a bottle of Tom Ford Black Orchid over them, then shoved it all in a bin bag. I used to love that perfume but never wore it because he hated it. I imagine that every time he wore a piece of clothing he wreaked to high hell, as if I were a ghostly presence reminding him what an arsehole he’d been to me.’

Recently, a lovely Instagram follower from the States contacted me to say she was coming to London for a holiday, and did I want anything from across the pond? Actually, yes please! As a sunscreen perfume fanatic, I have wanted to smell Vacation Eau de Toilette for ages. We have never met in person but I’ve literally just transferred a chunk of money to this stranger and we are currently arranging a meet-up to make ‘the exchange’, like a very bonkers and extremely posh drug-deal.

A few months ago, I fell into a fragrance honeytrap. My friend and grooming expert Robin James (of ManForHimself.com) published one of his excellent Street Scents reels - a video series where he interviews chic gents asking them what perfume they’re wearing. In this particularly teasing carrot-dangler episode, one fella holds back on sharing his scent because he doesn’t want the entire world to know (this is called ‘gatekeeping’ in the perfumeland), but of course Robin figured it out. The name Bianco Latte (by niche perfume house Giardino di Toscano) sounded utterly delicious, silly and yummy, so I hunted it down immediately. I ordered a sample from Edulge (which came within 24 hours. Madness), and when I say I was excited to open it I think that in itself needs to be addressed, because even I shocked myself. I ripped the box open so fast the postman hadn’t even stepped off the front path, and the vial literally flew out like a cartoon flea, bouncing off the staircase into the kids’ hair elastic pot. For context, there are product delivery bags from Hermes and Penhaligon’s sitting on my office floor that have remained unopened for three months. Sorry to make another LOTR reference (I’m not even that much of a fan) but again it all felt very ‘my precious’ when Bilbo tries to snatch the Ring of Power back from Frodo and I’m sure the Eye of Gondor was having a right old chuckle watching me flap about, trying to catch this bloody vial mid-air, in my doorway, in my pyjamas. Anyway, I sprayed it STRAIGHT ONTO MY SKIN without trying it on a blotter first - who am I? - but sadly here is where this vignette comes to a screeching halt. It was revolting. Sickly sweet and aggressively synthetic, as if my arm had been dipped into a vat of the type of Starbucks order my teenage nieces love - a Venti Caramel Frappuccino with whipped cream and endless pumps of molar-rotting goo. (But I’ll give it this: that bastard stuck on my skin for hours. I was aware of it all day, which is not something I can say for the majority of luxury scents I trial, and it did not let up. Persistent, performative, loud, brash and subconscious-gratingly annoying. It is Gen Alpha, bottled). Again, I was driven to do an absurd thing, but sadly this perfume was not deserving.

I don’t remember being upset when I heard Le Dix was no longer available because I was more excited about experiencing another unicorn moment. Surely there were other fragrances out there that could do this to me? To stretch out my lungs; to hit refresh on the daily grind. To make me remember someone or somewhere special. To make me well up with appreciation when a fragrance recipe has transcended into real life magic fairy dust under the wand of a skilled perfumer. There have indeed been dozens ever since, where the timing, situation, life stage or emotional tug have shaped a specific destiny where the pieces click together perfectly in my psyche and the fizzy glow has shot out of my pores. Miller Harris L’Air de Rien… YSL Kouros… Helmut Lang Eau de Parfum… CHANEL Coromandel… Acqua di Parma Colonia Essenza… Celine Black Tie… Diptyque Ilio… Guerlain Shalimar Millesime Tonka… Nivea Sun… Serge Lutens Louve… Creed Delphinus. There is a whole gang of them, a veritable stable of unicorns, which give me tequila shins every time I spray them.

This year, I’ve lassoed together even more and I think it’s because I’ve been much better at asking perfume consultants for precisely which scent profile I’m craving on that particular day (rather than overthink it and wistfully chase a story-of-my-life signature scent, which puts far too much pressure on anyone). My heart has stopped in its tracks for these incredible niche beauties that I would travel multiple postcodes for (possible not in kitten heels mind you).

Sora Dora Mandorle Extrait

If you like the thought of spreading a dollop of buttery, dense, bitter-sweet almond marzipan directly onto your wrist, then dabbing it with a tiny dot of oak-barrelled rum and inhaling that scent until you pass out, then you need to take a train to Brighton asap. I smelt this recently at the gorgeous boutique Soliflore and nothing else mattered from that point onwards.

[If you can’t get to Brighton, try Jovoy in London (although currently out of stock); and if you want to try a vial or blind-buy a full size, then have it at Edugle.]

Picture taken by me, in Grasse in late June, when I was invited by Nissaba and dsm-Firmenich for a sustainable ingredients masterclass. Career highlight for sure.

Nissaba Les Alpes

I absolutely love Nissaba’s purpose and approach, which I deep a little deep-dive about in this Instagram post. Rather than try to replicate the scent of the Alps, perfumer Fabrice Pellegrin and Nissaba founder Sébastien Tissot have chosen ingredients that grow in abundance in the Alps and shaped a scent around those. The resulting line-up of juniper berries, pine needles and hay smells nothing like those three should, but together they’re blended into a sexy, musky, carnal cologne that gave me the same “WOAH MAMA” reaction as when I first smelt Frederic Malle’s Musc Ravageur. It is the ideal perfume for people who don’t like florals, and the trailing linger (which lasts hours) is a handsome, silky, sophisticated aromatic that gets commented on multiple times a day. It’s out in a few weeks and I promise to update this post with the shopping link, and you can smell the collection at these stockists.

Arquiste Almond Suede

Another almond hit and this time we’re less sticky-frangipani, more roasty-toasty-almond-flakes and churchy vibes. I get lots of vintage leather with smoky woods and spicy vanilla, as if a vial of almond oil has been wafted over a candle flame to add a very faint and incredibly sexy soupçon of sooty birch tar. That smouldering burnt edge that makes me think of warrior queens back from a battle, eating macaroons wearing smudged black kohl eyeliner. I discovered this at the Richmond boutique Parfum Le Dance (it’s on the Ted Lasso street if you’re visiting) and subsequently feel like I’ve been living under a rock because it’s very popular in niche perfume-geek circles. Not as buttery or sweet as the Sora Dora one above, but equally addictive.

The Merchant of Venice Queen of The Night

The Merchant of Venice has a small and very special collection inspired by the ancient Egyptian recipe for Kyphi - an incense blend traditionally used as a healing remedy, for religious celebrations and to scent one’s home (and thought to be the first ‘perfume’ concept ever created). This particular Eau de Parfum Concentrèe (that’s code for super strong and long-lasting!) has a big swirl of cinnamon, tonka bean, saffron and other incense resins, and the sum of its parts is - to my nose - the most perfect sweet, soft, sexy and spiritual amber. It feels safe and comforting, but deeply confidence-boosting too; all things I want perfume to do for me. Don’t shout at me when you see the price - I don’t make the rules!

New Notes Talco

When I visited the fabulous Wild Iris boutique recently, I zoned in on Talco like a wasp on a can of Orangina. I’m a sucker for a talcum powder perfume and this is a literal tap of silky, fresh, nurturing and dense white dust in fragrance format. If you like Lorenzo Villoresi’s Teint de Neige, but you want a little less of the rose profile, Talco is for you. You can find New Notes at Liberty’s, Jovoy and The Fragrance Shop, and I also recommend sniffing Bonbons A La Violette for a hyper-real hit of sweetshop Parma Violets.

There is also one from Amouage I cannot stop wearing, but it deserves its own Substack and I promise that will be in your inbox in the coming weeks.

When I look back at that first encounter with Le Dix, that was the moment perfume-hunting became my ‘thing’. It’s why I do the job I do now. At first I wanted to feel it just for myself, but gradually I wanted to help others feel it too. I’ve had plenty of unicorn moments to last me a lifetime, so that mission now overrides my own personal hunt, like being a relationship matchmaker when you’re happily married.

I wonder: have you had yours yet? Have you felt that jolt of aromatic ecstasy that consumes you and makes you do wonderfully wild things? I would love to know below.

In the meantime, I’m off to spray a 20 year old perfume that smells like the musty crevices of a vintage suede handbag smudged in lipstick.

Let’s never stop being absurd.

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