J. Lo "Still"

"Here," the nattily-dressed salesman said, shoving four samples into my hand. "Quick, put them in your bag, I'm not meant to give you that much! This isn't even my zone!"

Ah, the danger and intrigue of the Oxford Street fragrance departments.

Of course, now I've got a ludicrous amount of "Still" I've found that it smells of nothing more than soap. Nice soap, but soap. As though I've taken a shower, then scraped my nail along the top of a moist white bar and rubbed the residue on my wrists and collarbone. Soap made up of white florals, maybe, but... That's it for four hours. Then a spicy/citrus whisper right against the skin that is so absolutely faint it might as well be a hallucination. Then... poof. Gone.

The bottle's easier to wax on about: the back's got this nifty refracting thing going on, so it looks faceted from the front. But then there's also a ridiculous plastic ring with a huge "diamond" settled around the atomiser! Now, this isn't an inexpensive perfume, so why on earth they'd spend the time and money making the really nice old-Hollywoodish bottle and then chuck a Crackerjack ring on the top, I've no idea. You can remove it, thank goodness, but... To what? Wear shoddy plastic imitation J. Lo "bling"? Silly marketing move there.

Verdict: Soapy fragrance with bizarrely contradictory packaging.

Viktor & Rolf "Flowerbomb"

This is a favourite of Lank's, which surprised me given that his wife apparently can't wear florals and is big on gourmand scents. I mean, "Flowerbomb" kind of implies floral overload. Now, though, I get it.

Firstly, how adorable is that bottle? Shaped like a grenade, yes, but I choose to see the design as a clever subversion of a violent object rather than something tacky. As for the fragrance itself: if you look at that bottle and imagine that the glass is actually candy, a sort of berry-tangerine boiled candy shell encasing a sherbety floral centre, then you're getting close to what this perfume's all about.

Much like hard candy, the sweetness is syrupy rather than sugary. (I tend to think of "sugary" as "a flavour with added sugar", whereas "syrupy" is much more integrated, with the sweetness and flavour blending so seamlessly you can barely tell them apart.) The first hint of floral I got was about an hour in, and that's only because I began to pick up a hint of powdery/polleny scent. I suspect there's a layer of jasmine between that candy shell and the actual bouquet -- it's the sweetest flower I know, and would explain the rather subtle segue. Then the fruity candy fades into the background and the burst of flowers is much clearer.

There is something vaguely dry about the floral accord, a little bit fizzy, which is why I'm thinking of a sherbet centre rather than a liquid one. Dried, powdered petals, maybe -- rose and freesia and lots of others, like confetti. Altogether I like the bottle, I like the concept, and the scent is a mass-market crowd pleaser. Would be suitable for Olive or Blondie, but I don't think I'd be able to wear it long into my 30s. I can't even wear it frequently now, given I'm not exactly the "effervescently sweet" type of personality. That said, I really wish I'd tested this one last night when out for a coworker's birthday drinks -- I wore "Une Rose" instead, and it was really a bit too classy for the occasion. Eh.

Canadianne likes it a lot, but was sidetracked by asking after "the sexy man one". Which is really funny, because I think she's going to use it on her boyfriend, and we both recommended it to her friends Dolphin Boy and AlternaScot last night, and Gil's just run off and gotten some in the States this weekend as well... Sexy men for everyone!

Verdict: A nice gourmand for those who avoid vanilla, and a nice floral for those who don't suit flowers.

Elizabeth Arden "5th Avenue After 5"

Ever wonder what Catherine Zeta-Jones smells like? Well, according to the ad campaign, she smells like "5th Avenue After 5". So, in order, like this: a grape out of a tinned fruit cup; dusty fruit; half-hearted cheeriness; the dregs of mixed juice left in the bottom of said fruit cup once it's been eaten; mustiness; a touch of compact powder.

How do you even create the smell of "dusty fruit"?! By adding coriander and saffron to the mix, if I'm reading these notes right. From what I can see they've tried to make a Middle Eastern-themed perfume, but while also trying to keep it young and cosmopolitan. Which is exactly what's ended up happening -- this is a woman who lives in the Middle East, eats Middle Eastern food, has all of those fragrances naturally embedded in her skin -- and now she's inexplicably splashed on a blend of citrus and honeysuckle-brightness and chosen a Mary Kay powderpuff over her black kohl. Oh, and don't forget the musk. Totally incongruous! I wouldn't be surprised to find a note of "kitchen sink" in this thing.

Verdict: This isn't a confident city girl; this is a deeply conflicted woman trying to be something she's not. No wonder Zeta-Jones looks so dead-eyed in the print ads.

Thierry Mugler "Alien"

I can't find a proper picture of the "Alien" bottle. Suffice it to say, it looks like a prop off the set of Stargate. To the right: an artist's rendering of the scent.

Selfridges had the entire entryway into the perfume hall set up to launch this fragrance. Women standing around, strategically zapping people as they walked by; a huge screen with an extra-terrestrial looking model apparently oblivious to the dangerous yellow octopus perched atop her head; displays with the various packagings on little plinths; the word "Alien" all over the place in Spooky Serial Killer font. Aside from the ET push, the theme seemed to be "Purple!". With a thought for the buspeople, I declined to get spritzed (get thee behind me, Mugler!) and instead made off with a tiny purple vial for later use.

On first application? BAM. Seriously, I sometimes wonder if Thierry Mugler could take the extended break between "Angel" and "Alien" because they've actually branched out into the development of chemical weaponry for shady government departments. If you like "Angel"'s sillage, you've got another contender here. But this isn't a gourmand scent on me -- unfortunately, what I immediately identified was the smell of tiger lily. Tiger lilies: beautiful, exquisite flowers that have the most appalling stink in close quarters, with pollen that will stain your clothes and never, ever wash out. "Alien" is like living in the heart of that deep lily throat, covered in rank pollen. It turned my stomach a little, it was so aggressive. I actually left Starbucks because I was self-conscious at how much this fragrance stank.

Once home, though, I began to come around. An hour and a half in, the green and jasmine notes asserted themselves, and the sillage died WAY down. There's something lurking underneath all of that green, something that is definitely out of place logically but also smells rather nice (it turns out to be a marine note, which intensifies as the day wears on until it becomes the dominant drydown note). The vanillin is very understated as well, emerging and taking over a few of the green notes as time goes on. The woodsy scent's been around since the tiger lily left, but in the background, eventually blending with the vanilla in a way that knocks any sticky-sweetness off.

Here's a bit of weirdness: my clothes still smell like the tiger lily-stage, but my skin moved on to woodsy green-vanilla and is rapidly giving up the ghost entirely only three hours on, leaving the strong marine element. Hm. The sillage die-off will disappoint fans of "Angel", and I'm leery of the tiger lily pollen. I admit that the stages after the opening are winning me over; it's a very eccentric scent, certainly not easy to pin down.

Verdict: A very nice and unusual fragrance, but not truly out of this world solely due to the opening. A very good alternate Mugler for those who can't stomach "Angel", I'd guess.

Christian Dior "Miss Dior Cherie"

Ah, now I'm regretting the "Coco Mademoiselle" purchase. Whoops.

"Miss Dior Cherie" is like a fresh fruit salad dressed with "Coco Mademoiselle". I caught a strong whiff of strawberry and melon on first application, which has settled down to a dry, fruity/woodsy musk. I'm surprised I like this as much as I do; my experience with the citrus side of things had me convinced that any fruits would immediately sour against my skin. I enjoy the sweetness of this fragrance, for once not laced with sugar or vanilla -- just a clear, clean fruit-sweetness. To be honest,there's also a sharpness in this scent that really is right on the edge for me; it's like a clump of lichen and a tangerine have gotten into a scuffle with a gatecrashing poof of powder somewhere in the background, but the situation is generally under control.

When I told Lank that I'd bought "Coco Mademoiselle", he was surprised -- said it was a little old. And honestly, he's right. If I'd known about "Miss Dior Cherie" from the get-go, the more powdery "Mlle" would still be on the shelf. Ah, well. Live and learn. And get a sample.

Verdict: "Coco Mademoiselle"s younger, fresher sister. While Mlle's meeting friends in an upscale restaurant, Cherie's enjoying a pub lunch outdoors on the riverbank.

Stila "Midnight Bloom"

I cannot escape the thought that this is a perfume designed as an evening fragrance for teenagers; the second perfume they've ever bought, the one they start wearing out at night. It's as if someone took a look at the entry-level teenage daytime scent of powder and vanilla and just substituted musk and gardenia for the vanillin. There's not much of a progression with this fragrance: it arrives in a burst of powdery gardenias and stays that way for ages, that giant bloom hanging heavy over any other notes for the rest of the day.

It's a sweet enough fragrance, I suppose, but very basic. The notes smell a little canned, and that gardenia will kill you. There's also an initial syrupy-sweet hiss that is the main development, eventually evaporating into a more typical vanilla note that brings a bit of cedar with it. Six hours on, it finally escapes the looming gardenia, becoming vanilla pudding with a few petals swirled into the dish -- a nice, perfectly pleasant scent and executed really well here, just coming in too late to really make up for the opening. I'd love to be able to say it smells like a trellis of gardenias or something, but the scent just doesn't lend itself to grand imagination. And man, this stuff is strong -- it almost overpowered me in the first two hours, so go easy on the dose. In the end, it hits me as yet another generic, kind of hamfisted design, available in hundreds of incarnations at the nearest pharmacy.

Verdict: A teenager's purchase for her first real date; unfortunately, the stage truly worth the amount of allowance she forked out for it is at the very end.

The Different Company "Bois d'Iris"

"Bois d'Iris" is absolutely not what I expected. Because The Different Company is Jean-Claude Ellena's brainchild, I assumed that this fragrance would have similarities with "L'Eau d'Hiver" -- that vivid single iris from the florist shop, but out in the wild. What I didn't expect was to apply this scent and suddenly experience a powerful impression of incense wafting out the censer waved by a Roman Catholic priest. It was the very specific scent I remember as a child, sitting in our clean modern church, as Father Tim made his way down the aisle trailing that cloudy, heavy odor.

But much like memories become idealised over time, I'm aware that "Bois d'Iris" is missing some of the negative elements of the real Roman Catholic incense. The oppressive smokiness, for one, is gone, as is the stinging spice. After 15 minutes the notes began to separate and I picked up cedar and wood and lichen, then the clearer florals between.

It's funny; I came into this expecting a flowery meadow for some reason, and so was blindsided by the entire religious experience -- what did that have to do with a woodland full of irises? But having wholly dismissed the name as ludicrous, the way the notes emerged actually brought me right back: willowy cedars clustered on a thick carpet of moss, pockets of irises jostling for any leftover space, like unexpectedly stumbling across somewhere totally idyllic and secret after a long hike. It's a full fragrance, kicking off with a heavy punch that doesn't so much mellow out as clarify, which makes it a lot easier to take. Unfortunately, the fragrance does fade rather quickly -- which I don't mind, as I prefer its lighter incarnation to the more gothic first impression.

Verdict: It somehow pulls off incense without actually being incense-based, and warm without being smoky. Really fascinating, and overtakes "Jasmin de Nuit" in the "I Must Own One of The Pretty TDC Bottles, I Must, I Must, Which One Though?" contest.

Guerlain "Aqua Allegoria Gentiana"

Fair warning, this is a bottle I unexpectedly unearthed while clearing up the flat. It is one of those bottles I mentioned in my very first post, the tiny airport testers my father brought back for Olive and myself. My friends, this bottle is probably about twelve years old, and has been treated abominably, and yet somehow managed to cross the Atlantic with me and survive three different England moves. So I tried it today more out of loyalty than anything else.

The aldehyde smell is pretty sharp. There's a dried orange smell, like the candied fruits you can get at specialty stores, coated in fine granulated sugar. Spices as well, like a packet you're just about to put into mulled wine. I'd imagine that there are potpourris that smell exactly like this on sale at Christmas. But the dried orange slowly changes into a powdery packet of orange gelatin, and the floral scents that emerge are incongruous with the entire holiday scene. They fight against the spiciness somehow, and that clash finally results in an oddly musty tone -- like a freshly halved grapefruit covered in pollen, gelatin and cinnamon? Sprinkled, of course, in aldehyde.

Verdict: A winner at the start, but the drydown's just a random crush of things out of a dried goods pantry (I'm choosing to blame the aldehyde on the sample age).

In other news, I just got back in touch with my high school friend Lank, who is getting married this fall. My neighbourhood boy from childhood, Gil, has been keeping us informally updated about each other, and finally I rang Lank up. Apparently he is now some sort of hotshot at a NYC perfume house, totally unbeknownst to me, and the first thing out of his mouth?

"Gil told me you're interested in fragrance!"

Ack! Thanks, Gil. Unexpectedly caught in a situation not unlike a tai chi novice discussing martial arts with Bruce Lee, I babbled incoherently for a while, and am still too humiliated about the entire thing to really focus on it for any amount of time. Then again, lovely Lank could end up being a bit of a sample source?

Bond No. 9 "Hamptons"

I've never been to the Hamptons, mainly because I view it as Cape Cod for Famewhores. Celebrities who want to have an actual vacation go to Nantucket or the Vineyard; celebrities who want to be available to Page Six photographers go to the Hamptons. That said, I've always imagined the environs are similar (bar the Hamptonsesque stench of collagen and desperation).

So "Hamptons" was familiar, mostly. Bug spray (but the nice sort), an unlit citronella candle on a wooden deck, sunscreen faint on your skin, a breeze coming in off the ocean through the dune grass and maybe a hint of seaweed drying out on the sand. Nice and a little reminscent, even if I think that the bottle is naff.

Here's the thing, though: after a couple of hours, I suddenly noticed a salty sting in the back of my throat. And not sea salt. Table salt. A doctor once told me to gargle with salt for a throat infection, and that weirdly stale salt coating is right there now at the back of my throat. I'm not sure if this has somehow changed my sense of smell, but suddenly I'm getting an undertone of black sand (the churned-up, foul-smelling, probably rotting-shellfish-based sand that gets exposed at very low tide). But... with whiffs of beach flowers on top. So that's salty, sickly-rotten and super-sweet-flowery all on one wrist. It's not got a patch on my personal Perfume Archnemesis, "Angel", but for me this is just not happening.

Verdict: Starts off fun and genuine and clean and breezy, only to end up as thinly-masked corruption that literally leaves a bad taste in your mouth. "Hamptons", indeed.

Editions de Parfums "Une Rose"

Whoa. Hello, roses.

I'd just begun to wonder if I really don't like roses on their own. As a booster for another floral scent I could take them, but all one their own they immediately make me think of the tinny, watery perfumes I got as a five year old, prepackeged with a fake lipstick and transluscent eye shadow compact. This bias held as I first applied "Une Rose" -- a single rose in a plastic wrapper, possibly purchased at a filling station. Green and not particularly fragrant and disappointing.

But then imagine that the person who gave you that single rose leads you to a room, opens the door, and it is full of giant, blossoming, boisterous roses. Those roses have been in there for a while, warming in the heat of the tealights dotted about, and the air is a deep swirl of heady, velvety roses. Mature roses -- not innocent, hopeful sweetheart roses. Provocative roses.

I spent the whole day bringing my wrist to my nose and inhaling this scent. It's not the close-to-the-petal scent of "L'Eau d'Hiver" -- it's a thronging mass of fermented blooms somehow working in reverse: instead of wafting by you in the air, it's clinging to your skin. I'm so glad I didn't wear it to work; it would be so out of place. But I would adore wearing this out in the evening, and carrying the scent of the best part of a rose's bloom with me everywhere. For the people around you who get the sillage coming off you, it will be as though YOU are a rose.

Verdict: Damn sexy and damn seductive, and damn worth the investment.

Burberry "Weekend"

This is one of the hard-won samples from Selfridge's, which I picked up on the recommendation of my high school friend Pidge. Burberry's got a bit of a chav-tastic reputation lately in general, and the bottle looks downright stupid, but Pidge is a classy lady so on it went.

A melon wash at first, which then blurred into an almost alcoholic woodsy spice on me -- not boozy, just bright. That freshness lingered for a good three hours, then mellowed into a muskier tone that deepened the spices a little. There was a touch of powder at the end, but totally devoid of flowery insipidness, so it didn't bother me at all.

"Weekend" is somewhat utalitarian for me -- it's a good scent, and I certainly wouldn't turn away a free bottle, but it's very much a take-or-leave perfume on my skin. Pidge's body chemistry is about as far from mine as you can get, though, and I'd be interested to see if the flowers come out on her.

Verdict: Inoffensive, clean scent that is as casual as they come, but won't be setting my world on fire anytime soon.

Ormonde Jayne "Ta'if"

First, an apology.

My dear fellow passengers on the top deck: I am so, so sorry. I only darted into Selfridge's briefly after dinner. But then the perfume lady zapped me with "Vera Wang" before handing me a sample of the Men's version. And then another lady hit me with Stella McCartney's "Stella". And then I put Serge Lutens "Blond" on voluntarily (mistake) and then scored my second sample by allowing myself to get spritzed with "Burberry Weekend". But the truly appalling final act was mine, oh buspeople. Because I was the idiot who, completely of my own volition, picked up a tester of "Angel" and put it on the back of my Vera Wang'd right wrist.

Why I didn't realise that this is like putting a sleeping fairy and a soaked gremlin in a small room and then walking away, I don't know. Because the VW slumbered on prettily until the Angel crawled right around my wrist, smothered it, and then began an attempt on the life of the man sitting next to me. I tried to muffle the Angel against my jeans, but it only came back stronger. And you buspeople were very nice not to chide me publicly for smelling like a chemical weapon of mass destruction, though I suspect it was because some of you saw the samples in my hand and feared Angelic retribution. So... sorry.

Love, Lizzie


That done with, it's "Ta'if" time. Honestly, this was repellant first on -- horrible and musty and evil. It took a good 15 minutes for it to die down a bit, at which point the mustiness settled into a very heavy, dry spiciness mixed with roses and other flowers. It made me think of clouds and dusk, something muddled and swirling and dense, but at the same time not strong. And then at the end my old nemesis powder made an understated cameo. There was something alluring about "Ta'if", sly and slightly unpredictable, which I found attractive. I'm just unsure that I can ride out the musty opening and the powdery finish enough to enjoy it.

Verdict: Subtle and smoky at the same time, it's nice at the midpoint, but the start and finishing notes are killing me. (Though not as badly as "Angel", frankly -- I may never run this one as a true test, I feel ill.)

Editions de Parfums "Cologne Bigarade"

Jean-Claude Ellena finally makes something I don't like. Not a huge surprise, as it's a bitter-fresh citrus that is another in the vein of "unisex... not so fast, missy". But Chandler Burr got my hopes up, dammit:

"The best way to describe Jean-Claude Ellena’s Bigarade is to say, first, that it is a vast smell. And second, that it smells like a human being in the summer in a complex weather system; whoever this person is, we can smell them, they're showered and clean but it’s warm and they have a smell all the same, and the lovely, complex smells of summer are all around and clinging to their skin, and also it seems to have just rained because there's the scent of rainwater on pavement and perhaps a bit of ozone, plus some flower petals and grass that got washed into the puddle they're stepping in. "

So you can see how I would lust after this, right? Right. Wrong!

It hits me like a brick. Most household cleaning products are scented to take the edge off the chemical stench, usually with a lemon scent. And that's what this is to me: the straight-up additive they design to be so terrifically powerful that it will overtake the bleach you've just swabbed across the bathroom floor. A big vat of unadulterated "fresh"ness, with lemon zest swirled in and maybe a couple of car freshners bobbing around for good measure. It's household detergent times a thousand, and it is slowly making me utterly nauseous. There's other stuff in here, some sort of spicy/floral something, but both notes are like needles in a haystack. A noxious, lemony, eye-watering haystack.

Verdict: As usual with the unisex scents, this one hates me. Like bathing in lemon-fresh Clorox.

Editions de Parfums "Le Parfum de Thérèse"

The nose on this one is Edmond Roudnitska, who designed the perfume exclusively for his wife in the 50s. It goes on like a juicy honeydew rind sprinkled generously with black pepper, a startling scent. The melon scent fades, though, leaving behind a simple watery pepper odour. That scent lingers for absolutely ages, strong and shallow, before getting a hint of woodsy/floral/spicy/leathery depth. But I do mean hint -- I have to really focus hard on distinguishing any notes at all other than "this smells like something other than my skin". And it's still all lurking water, hidden pepper as well.

I do finally understand what a leather note smells like, and I like it here: an almost indistinguishable whisper, like you've been wearing your date's jacket all evening and even after you've handed it back, there's just that hint of leather softness left on your skin. Too bad your date likes pepper so much.

I can only assume that this is a chemistry thing, because I know people really like this scent and get a lot more out of it than I did. On me, it's just weird and confused.

Verdict: Not my kind of Malle -- and I really hope Thérèse didn't smell like pepper. Achoo.

Pilar & Lucy "the exact friction of stars"

Oh, Pilar. Oh, Lucy. Did someone watch "Clueless" a few times too many in college? Because -- a far cry from the suave sophistication of my divine Different Co. -- your bottles are offensive to my eye, what with the twee silk flowers and absolutely stupid fuzzy boa-thing twined about the bottleneck. I can only imagine the poof of feathery crap gets kind of manky halfway through the bottle, no? Sticky and greasy and horrible-smelling? Isn't it bad, Pilar and Lucy, that I am thinking all of this about your product on sight alone?

I wanted to try this line because of the names of the perfumes, which are insane. I realised they were foody scents (and am currently avoiding "to twirl all girly" because atrocious grammar AND threatened ubergirliness is just too much), so I gave this one a go on a non-work day when I'd be able to wash it off if it was really repellant.

When I was a teenager, I had an oil burner, one of those little dishes you put above a tealight and fill with perfumed oil. I believe the only reason my mother allowed me to have the thing was to stop me from burning incense in my room (which, given my forgetfulness, would have been a conflagration in the making). This perfume smells EXACTLY like the vanilla oil the moment I lit the tealight -- weirdly sharp and sugary and thick and vanilla vanilla vanilla. Oil burners are meant to perfume an entire room, though, and this scent is like having your nose right next to the saucer, which gives it an artificial, chemical rasp. As the day's worn on, it's morphed into homemade vanilla custard: creamy and buttery and eggy, but with a touch too much vanilla essence. Or maybe a tub of Betty Crocker vanilla frosting, complete with preservative edge. Altogether, it makes me resent the froufrou name and ditzy bottle even more.

Verdict: The stars are made of egg and vanilla and powered by tealights, and the friction's probably not friction at all, just residual teenage angst.

The Different Company "Jasmin de Nuit"

This is Jean-Claude Ellena's company, and they have really, really pretty bottles. Hefty solid glass things that would look wonderful on any vanity -- if I were tempted by lovely casings, these would certainly be at the top of my list. Mmmmm. Pretty. Mmmm...

Sorry.

I put this on to go to Tankard's garden barbecue. I figured it'd be a good pick for an August night out in the backyard -- unfortunately, the weather did not agree and as soon as I left the house I got drenched. I loved this scent going on; it's delicate and solid and warm, a very grounded floral but not earthy. After the downpour and whilst stuck on a crowded Tube, I was quite nervous that the scent might be really billowing, but due to a large man eating a series of pungent mints across from me I wasn't able to judge. Another trek through muggy, misty, rainy weather may have washed the rest of the perfume away -- and if the weather didn't, then Tankard's beautiful eight-month old daughter Emtoo drooled it right off my neck.

So I can't say much for the longevity of this scent, though I liked it enough to give it another test run in the near future. It might actually fare better in cold weather than in hot, and I continue to be rather suspicious of perfumes I can't atomise. But all other issues aside, it is lovely. It's what the air smells like on a garden patio at night after a fantastic dinner, with the remnants of coffee and tea and biscuits on the table. A scent like jasmine doesn't need to be complex if it's done beautifully, and this one is beautiful.

Verdict: The more I think about it, the more I love it. Feminine and gentle but also subtly persistent, it's also very age-appropriate. And pretty bottle to boot!

Antica Farmacista "Vaniglia, Bourbon & Mandarino di Sicilia"

This was a freebie with a set of other samples. Vanilla, bourbon and mandarin? Hmm. Foody and boozy and citrusy: throw in some powder, and it sounds like my olfactory nightmare. But also free, and I am nothing if not cheap when given the chance.

This goes on like a moist slice of Grand Marnier cake drizzled thinly with vanilla icing. But that phase vanished within 15 minutes, replaced by a thick, creamy vanilla with a slight mandarin sheen. In other words, I smell like a creamsicle. (Another foody description could be a glass of cream soda with a large dollop of vanilla ice cream bobbing on top.)

Applied from the sample vial, this is pretty strong; I can only imagine that a sprayed application would increase the sillage. My coworkers like it, but in an "mmmm!" way rather than an "oooooh" way. And I do enjoy the scent (though I'd've preferred the Grand Marnier cake to linger instead), but it is very young, or very... disingenuous? Basically, this is so sweet on me that it verges on childish coquettishness, and while that's a nice scent for a picnic or a day at a theme park (you know, where there are actual creamsicles present), it's not something I'd ever put into regular rotation as a grown woman. I can imagine this is sweet on a teenage girl, so I may pass it on to my cousin Blondie and see if it suits her better.

A last note on the creamsicle effect: I think I've been a bit spoilt by the two icy-fresh Malles. I was looking for a creamsicle right out of the freezer; I got a creamsicle that had melted as I ate it, dribbled down my wrist, and left behind a sticky film that I'd better wash off fast before the ants find me. And that melted-creamsicle scent was the one that lingered all day long, so much so that my stomach turns every time I catch a whiff of it (eight hours on).

Verdict: Sweet and thick vanilla with faint orange glaze, it's a creamsicle to the end. If you're someone who could conceivably have just eaten a creamsicle, then this might be for you. If you're not, then save it for the occasional picnic.

Silver Fox

So I'm lingering at a long red light, absently sniffing my wrist (as I am prone to do now), when a Volvo pulls up beside me. A trim mustached Englishman, probably pushing 85, grins up at me on my bike.

He compliments me on the fact that I'm wearing a flashing indicator on the back of my pack, and we agree that it's clearly only right given the way the night's begun closing in again at 9 pm. He asks where I work, and I name the Extravagantly Gigantic Group. It turns out that his son-in-law works at EGG too, though is in a different department entirely. I shrug, smiling, and say that I guess I've just not met him yet.

"Do you like fat swallow?"

I'm pretty sure I've misheard that, so I ask him to repeat himself.

"Do you like Fats Waller?" He grins and turns up the car stereo, which I can now hear is playing mellow jazz. It's nice, and he bobs his head a little, in the groove. I laugh and say that I do like the music, mostly because I do.

The light changes. "Goodnight!" I say, and start to pedal away.

He slowly peels off to the left, one arm jauntily hanging over the doorframe, and calls out with the sort of style Bogart would have envied: "Bye, baby!"

I'll bet he was quite the catch.

Editions de Parfums "L'Eau d'Hiver"

Jean-Claude Ellena is one of the more well-known noses in perfume. Some perfume addicts trail Ellena from house to house, snapping up anything he creates -- but again, those fragrances are guided by the needs of the house, rather than the will of the nose. With Editions, Ellena's imagination is allowed free rein.

I had intended to space the Malles out a bit, but when choosing a vial this morning I found it very hard to pick anything else -- "En Passant" delighted me all day yesterday, and the thought of lacing myself with something heavy just didn't appeal, especially as they're mostly vanilla or incense fragrances. By name alone, "L'Eau d'Hiver" seemed out of season, but then again, a splash of wintry water would be welcome in the summer heat. So on it went.

On me, it's the first crocus after winter, emerging while there's still a little snow on the ground. That scent alone is one I find incredibly beautiful, and incredibly unusual, but then it progresses in a way that's practically a narrative of the life of a flower. From the snowy crocuses to a cool greenhouse full of annuals, all ready for the first planting of the spring. Then it's as though I'm bringing my nose very close to an iris, right against the petals -- the fragrance is wholly tied up with the greeny plant-ish smell of the petal itself. As time goes on I smell a pollen note emerge, and then the florals just ripen and deepen like a bouquet on your living room table. Absolutely stunning, from start to finish.

It's an intimate scent, both in that it feels like you're getting to know one specific flower personally and in that it lingers very close to the skin. Canadianne liked it, but Tankard just proclaimed it "very weak". Which is fine; to boost the sillage on this fragrance would mean changing that concept of a single stem into a field of them, and the feeling of intimacy would be lost. So go somewhere else to get hit over the head with a bouquet.

Verdict: The life cycle of a flower framed by the progression of springtime. Private and subtle and gorgeous, this is another light scent I would wear in a heartbeat and enjoy all day long.

Editions de Parfums "En Passant"

After yesterday's disorienting and traumatic cult experience, I went in search of something soothing. I rummaged through my Box o'Samples, getting steadily more concerned about the descriptions tacked onto each bottle that threatened lurking musks and spicy surprises -- I wanted reliable! I wanted obvious! I wanted sanity, dammit! So it's very lucky for me that I finally came across "En Passant".

I remember stumbling over Frederic Malle's Editions de Parfums story while starting this whole perfume fandango. Usually a house hires a "nose" (the actual perfume alchemist) with a specific steer; sometimes they've even got the name and launch date all set, long before a single trial is created. But Frederic Malle has taken a different route by approaching some of the best noses in the business and basically saying "have fun". These are the scents that the creators themselves find most intruiging, without any fussing by higher-ups. Fascinating, no? And very cool.

With a story like that, I'm a little concerned that I might give some of the Editions higher ratings out of fondness for their freewheeling hippie background. But I'll give it a go anyhow.

"En Passant" went onto my wrist with the most vivid burst of floral/wet/cold scent. Apparently the floral is lilac, which isn't a scent I'm attuned to, but it reminded me most of a corsage a few moments out of the fridge, just at the second you open the protective box. Then there was a very definite watery element: imagine sniffing a slice of watermelon, and then taking away the melon-ness. It's like that -- clear, cold, sweet water. On me, the floral notes then die down and are infused with a sweet grasses scent, like laying in a dew-covered hayfield at dawn. The perfume is remarkably steady in its progression, just tipping the scales ever so slightly in favour of floral, water or grass at any given time. Overall it's just fresh and bright and beautiful.

Olivia Giacobetti’s design is truly lovely, sincere and very approachable. Light and brilliant, with no heavy notes at all, perfect for warmer weather. Where "Sampaquita" is a classy garden party already in progress, "En Passant" is simpler, a promise of something wonderful just out of sight.

Verdict: 1950 Hollywood's version of an Iowan prom night; pure and clear and heady, and totally enchanting.

The People of the Labyrinths "Luctor et Emergo"

When numerous publications name you "cult scent of the year", are you really a cult scent anymore? I have no idea. But if the word-of-mouth and critical acclaim managed to raise PotL's profile, at least the incredibly insane price will prevent a lot of people from getting their very own bottle, and thus the scent remains exclusive. (Not to mention the name of the creators, The People of the Labyrinths, brings to mind "The Clan of the Cave Bear", and does anyone really want to smell like Cro-Magnon erotica? Or more frightening still, encourage Cro-Magnon erotica behaviour on a date? Eeek!)

"Luctor et Emergo" has quite the reputation. Apparently it changes not only according to who's wearing it, but it reacts to the atmospheric conditions AND the season during which you wear it. All of this makes it very difficult to pin down a specific review, unless you revisit the sample every few months.

So, in August in London on a sunny day when it's probably in the mid 70s: cherries, first and foremost, then almondy marzipan. Then incense and woody smells, but warm and close; this isn't a fragrance that lends itself to wide-open spaces. I've heard a lot of talk about a Play-Doh undercurrent, and I definitely see what people mean, but it's not strong on me, and besides -- children eat Play-Doh, so clearly it's not totally repulsive. But then... there's this sweet kick that's almost sickening a few hours in. Not a talc smell, just horribly sweet. And then it dies down again and smells like the nicer bits of your spice rack.

It doesn't really help that I conducted this test sitting next to the barista at Starbucks on what was apparently coffee-grinding day, so my sense of smell is largely shot. I'm also a little concerned that this scent might disappear on me very, very quickly, which would put me RIGHT off the thought of buying a bottle. I'm going to wait a bit and try another go-round, this time wearing it into the office and getting a wider response. I'm leery of foody scents (if a man really wants me to smell like a sponge cake, he can bloody well help me in the kitchen while I cook), but if this turns out to be one of those perfumes that makes me think "eh, nice" and makes others react very strongly, then maybe I'll start scrounging the sales.

Verdict: Like eating marzipan and dried cherries in an old wooden Catholic church during Easter week, then spending the rest of the day running around in the sun-baked grasses and woods. And then it turns into goddamn "Flower"! Gah! Wait, no, now it's okay again... Oh, god, I can't take it. I'm confused. This stuff is evil genius. Come back when I've edited this entry about a million more times. I think I need to lay down in a dark room for a while.

Ormonde Jayne "Ormonde Woman"

Okay. Upon first application, this is a major hit of herbs, which was not the most pleasant impression. But I'm willing to shrug that off as personal bias, completely related to a summer job working under a tyrannical florist who made me weed dill beds for hours at a time, so much so that the smell of dill now makes me ill. Luckily, this died down (the scent, at least -- the horrible, scarring florist memories remain).

Sandalwood, cedary, spicy, and apparently involving black hemlock, which is the selling point of this perfume in the literature. I have no idea what hemlock smells like, though I'm sure Socrates could give me some pointers, but it made me think of truffles. Have I ever eaten/smelled a truffle? No. But there you go. This one's got a powdery smell to it as well, but softly, and really very subtle -- nothing like the kablooey of talc that others have.

It ended up smelling like a wooden box that stored expensive incense at some point. I thought it was rather nice -- something you might want to wear on a summer night out, but with kohl rimming your eyes and wearing something sultry and sexy. I caught a bit of cinnamon and spice off it, like a marketplace in somewhere like Turkey. There's also something clear and minty in it, but comes off as "fresh" rather than "chewing gum".

I wore this into the office on a weekend, and as my coworker Siborg was in and subjecting me to bloody cricket, I in turn made him critique the perfume. His reaction, in short: "It smells like an auntie".

Mmmmm. I get what he's saying. It is a mature scent that will age you, which is why I'd never wear it every day. The problem is, other women WOULD wear it every day, and those women would be older women wearing Hermes scarves. We tried a second test a few hours after the first reaction, and sadly, the auntieness remained. I think it's also got something to do with the powder scent, which gets stronger as the day goes on.

I like this one better than the Malone "Vintage Gardenia" version, but I'm going to have to reluctantly side with Siborg; I'm 25. Unless you dress yourself up and make sure to eradicate all association with an older woman, you're going to end up reminding your date of his lovely auntie June. And if he still wants to ravage you after that -- well, you've got more pressing problems than perfume selection.

(I did pay for this critique, by the way. Before this weekend, I was deliciously oblivious when it came to cricket. Now I know that there is such a thing as a "golden duck", that there's a position called "silly mid off", and when the entire crowd cheers and holds up signs with the number 6 on them, which momentarily makes it look like a Satanic gathering, it actually just means that someone's scored outside of the boundaries and earned six runs. But I also got to hear such illuminating commentary as "He must be glad to get his hands around some balls. Finally be able to really get a hold on them!")

Verdict: Too close to call; occasionally might work as a summer evening scent when carefully orchastrated with wardrobe and makeup, but will age you in the daytime and make men think of their aunts. Not advantageous.

Jo Malone "Amber & Lavender"

This is billed as "unisex". Yeah, not so much.

I smell like a boy. To be precise, a sexy man who's just on his way out the door in the morning to his job in the city, straightening his tie around his crisp white collar, all shaving creamy and aftershavey and minty. In other words, an absolutely maddeningly wonderfully sexy scent. On my boyfriend. Not on my wrist.

Apparently Jo created this for her husband, which certainly makes sense, as it is exactly what would cause you to make your boyfriend (very) late for work. Canadianne thinks it's brilliant, but agrees that it's really more masculine than I can carry off (which hasn't stopped her from grabbing and sniffing my wrist every time I walk past). There's a touch of something arid and liquorice in here, and maybe even fern.

To be honest, I might pick up a couple more testers of this scent; even though I'd never wear it out of the house, it is a really crisp and attractive cologne that would probably be nice and twisty worn on a night in. In the meantime, I'm going to attack some male friends with samples and see how they fare.

Won't make the mistake of wearing it out again, though -- I've been getting some double-takes just walking through the office, and I'm not sure if people think I've just mauled an attractive man in the lifts or if they're all spontaneously questioning their sexuality.

Verdict: Absolute sex in a bottle on the right guy. Yowza.

Ormonde Jayne "Sampaquita"

Apparently there's citrus in this one, and for once? I can wear it!

This one is lovely and light and airy, but tethered enough at the base to make me not smell like a bridesmaid at a tacky wedding. Fabulously, each floral scent (and though I can't identify them, the literature notes magnolia, freesia, rose and water lily) comes together in a beautiful, musky way that is entirely entrancing. There's also bergamot perfectly played, emerging rarely like a breath of fresh air -- not a fizzy Fanta in sight. I hadn't read the description of this tester before trying it, and so found myself peering at coworkers trying to find out which one was eating a satsuma only to realise that those brief, elusive wisps of fragrance were actually coming from me.

I hate lychee nuts with an absolute passion, but apparently there are some of those in the mix as well. Maybe that's what's mellowing all of the floral and citrus stuff? I did catch the water lily a couple of times at the start, I think, which was a really pretty addition. There's also the tiniest spiciness, but it's just a hint.

This is noted as a summer scent, and I think I can see why -- it's like walking through an ornate English garden in the late afternoon, when all of the flowers are beginning to cool and the ornamental ponds are fragrant and the trees causing the breeze to eddy all the scents around you, and somewhere just out of sight someone is eating an orange. Just that sort of lazy, hazy, perfect summer day. I would certainly make this edp a top pick, and am delighted to have found a perfume that tames the citrus enough to agree with my skin.

Verdict: Were it a painting, it'd be a Monet, and that's exactly the sort of summer day that will see me wearing it. Delicious.

Ormonde Jayne "Tolu"

This goes on strong and a little bit alarming, but swiftly dies down to a nice, pleasant scent. Nothing special on me, though it has lasted absolutely ages. Warm and sweet but not at all sugary, it's a mature floral powder that doesn't get too girly or too grannish. Unfortunately is does get a shade mumsy, which is why I won't be making this a staple in my mid-20s. Maybe in another couple of decades when I'm looking for a clean, mature talc.

Verdict: Long-lasting powder with underlying florals, but not young enough for me.

Jo Malone "Orange Blossom"

Unfortunately, this smells of nothing more than Fanta and fizzy sherbet on me. I can imagine that it would smell lovely on others, but to my skin it's flat and dull with a bizarrely dairy sourness to it as well. Like someone poached a satsuma in milk, then dropped it in carbonated water. Bleh! The only good thing was that it swiftly disappeared.

Verdict: I smell like I just lost a fight with a sugar-hyped toddler

Jo Malone "Vintage Gardenia"

The Jo Malone offices kindly sent along a slew of samples and test strips, so I was spoilt for choice this morning. After a quick deliberation (during which I sniffed so much I got a bit lightheaded), I settled on what was billed as a floral, "Vintage Gardenia with Cardamom & Myrrh".

Immediately, I was worried that this was too heavy to wear to the office. Spicy and musky and piney and mulchy, it's quite a knockout on first application. And then... it vanished. Spooky.

I'd been warned about the staying power of Jo Malone's line, and was ready to write this one off at the one-hour mark. But then it suddenly came back, more mellow and warm, and now I like it very much.

The sandalwood and spice remind me exactly of a carved wooden fan my father brought me from Japan when I was little. The fan itself was scented sandalwood, and I would take it out and briefly flutter it in my face to catch the heavy scent before quickly trapping it back in the box in an attempt to preserve the fragance. I loved the odor, but even then I knew it was too mature for a child.

Any gardenia in this scent lurks well below the woodsy spice on me. My boss Pun Fu liked it a lot, saying it smelled like the inside of a candle shop, but in a good way. I think it's a bit much for a summer day at the office, but I will certainly try it again when we're well into autumn. Sadly, it does seem to largely cut out at the four-hour mark, surging infrequently after that point.

This might be an excellent cologne on a man. I'm not really into the male/female scent split, but on a man's skin this might come across as more natural than it does on mine. I'm in no rush to go beyond the sample at the moment.

Verdict: Good all-around warm-me-up on a gray November afternoon

Chanel "Coco Mademoiselle"

It was an impulse buy after hearing many good reviews on blogs and from friends -- a whole 50ml bottle off the shelf at the pharmacy, and without even testing it first. Madness, I know. Then again, as I was waiting for the clerk to process my payment I did quickly blast some edp on my wrist -- and half an hour later, some random guy chatted me up at my coffee shop. (For those who wonder if I'm giving the perfume too much credit here: I was wearing running shoes, jeans, a misshapen gray shirt and a thermal vest. Sex-aay.) So on a high from the unexpected flirtation, I tripped along home with my lovely new bottle to apply a little more and give it a good run-through.

First thought: This is my aunt's perfume. Second thought: Ugh! PUG!

Interestingly, these things are linked. My aunt always wears perfume, and in a concentration that makes me wonder if any of it touches her skin at all. Only after getting a sniff of "Coco Mademoiselle" straight out of the bottle did I realise that this is certainly her fragrance of choice. On my wrist it changes, of course, and I apparently didn't notice the correlation in the pharmacy test.

The second thought is completely related to the fact that my aunt has two small, meatloaf-shaped hellbeast pugs. Apparently, my mind is so used to catching the unadulterated whoosh of fragrance that it supplied the smell of dog all on its own. Thanks, brain. Gah.

Anyhow, down to the actual scent. I'm wearing it again today, having carefully NOT inhaled it until it was well and truly blended with my skin. I was alarmed to smell something sharpish and stingy for the first time, and then cucumber, and then a sort of rot... Very odd. Luckily this swiftly changed over to what I can only describe as the inside of an old, warped blanket box in a cottage, where someone's just reached in to get a well-used patchwork quilt. A warm, secure scent on me. This is, along with "Romance", one of those scents that makes me think of being in a familiar, comfortable relationship.

It's shallowed out now to a powdery scent, but thankfully lacking the sugary residue that so put me off "Flower". A lingering, floral talc. Very nice, and probably something I'd wear for a day out -- but it does strike me as a tad intimate for the office.

And we do have a Canadianne result: the streak has been broken. On her, "Coco Mademoiselle" smells exactly like the powdered grit in my grammar school's soap dispensers. Ha!

Verdict: A long lunch out with the girls

Kenzo "Flower"

Oh, my.

I got this one off of Canadianne, who just happened to have a tiny sample bottle in her purse. She was already wearing the "Romance" she'd gotten off of me, so I went solo on the "Flower" testing. It's a shame, because now I'm very curious as to how it smells on her, because on me? Eeeeh.

It kicked off with a smell that reminded me of nothing more than high-end industrial bathroom cleaner. You know how you walk into the bathroom at the Four Seasons and it's clearly just been cleaned because you smell talc and flowers everywhere? On the scale of the various ways bathrooms could smell, it's one of the better options -- but in the bathroom where you can leave it behind, not on me. The high-end bathroom (complete with soapy, angular elements) then turned into someone's frail grandmother. Then into a baby-changing table. Then those little Italian doughball cookies that are almost sickly-sweet and leave a film on your tongue.

In other words, "Flower" is not a happy scent on my wrist. I love the bottle and I occasionally liked the sweet-baby-powder element, but then it went all twee on me and I couldn't take it anymore. Hopefully Canadianne will wear it in sometime soon and I'll be able to tell you if her skin cuts out some of the more aggressive sugary notes and turns up an actual flower or two.

Verdict: Part cradle, part grave, and for me all wrong

Ralph Lauren "Romance"

This is the one that started it all for me. Olive bought it, it smelled nice on her, and my sister and I are enough alike that I essentially though "Eh, that'll be fine on me, then". And it is. But now that I'm branching out, I thought I'd revisit it and really focus on it for a day.

What starts out as windy and brisk mellows into a very nice crisp scent on me. It made me think of Iceland, with wide-open spaces and scrubgrass and a slate-blue sky (no sulfur from the geysers, though). To place it in a more day-to-day setting, it smelled like Oxford shirts and confidence.

This is a scent that is quite contained; it makes me feel organized and very together, both personally and professionally. It's something I would gladly wear to steady a slight case of nerves -- what came to mind was meeting up with an old friend from high school whom I've not seen since, and wanting to come across well. A touch of adult complexity bound together with a coherent, confident wholesomeness. On me, this just isn't a flirty or passionate scent; it is assured and clean and lovely, but too contained to attract interest. Very suitable for officewear, but not an evening scent for me.

Canadianne, on the other hand, smells much sexier in "Romance" than I do. On her the spice is much more promising and the crispness is subdued, which would make it an excellent date-scent.

Verdict: Everyday at the office

The Signature Scent

Like many girls, I grew up in a family where the women each had a "signature scent". Every Christmas my mother would open a bottle of Estee Lauder's "Beautiful" with a rapturous smile, then allow each of us girls a tiny spritz.

It might as well have been liquid gold; Mum made it very clear that her perfume was not something for children. We would bob around her like corks as she readied herself for a night out, waiting for the moment when she would uncap the glass bottle and spray it on her neck, her wrists, her collarbone. The stray particles of perfume would inevitably drift down and settle on us where we stood in ponytails and pyjamas; it made us feel very grown-up.

My father fed our addiction with tiny rows of sample bottles from airport stopovers, which we inevitably either lost, broke, or saved for so long that the perfume inside went a bit whiffy. I used CK One for a good while in high school, mostly because it was given to me by my first boyfriend. I don't think I used anything at all in college except for a tiny vial of The Body Shop's "White Musk", and that only because I had it lying around. Like many of the utterly fascinating things that get left behind in childhood, my interest in perfume just evaporated.

Then my sister Olive (the younger but more "together" sibling) decided to find "her" scent. She trawled Sephora, boyfriend in tow, finally emerging triumphantly with Ralph Lauren's "Romance". In a moment of total lunacy, she told me of her find.

And I promptly stole her perfume.

I have since learned that this is something of a cardinal sin amongst sisters. Clothes, shoes, hair product -- all of these things were mere annoyances when compared to filching Olive's perfume. She is kinder than I am, and did not kill me; as luck would have it I was anticipating a move to the UK, and so we created a vey handy rule. I am allowed to wear "Romance" as long as I am inhabiting another continent. When we are on the same continent? The scent is Olive's alone.

"This is all very nice," you might say. "But what does it have to do with Scentsibility?"

Well. After four delightful years in the UK, I am now looking at moving back to the US. In fact, I'm looking at moving back to the same city as Olive. While neither of us is as territorial about "Romance" anymore, I thought it might be nice to find my own scent, or better yet series of scents. And after a brief whirl through the various blogs, reviews and articles on the internet, I realised that I will never, ever be able to be one of those very accurate reviewers who comments on notes and drydowns and compares to the Great Perfumes. I don't have the best nose on a good day. And while I love the word "patchouli", I have no idea what it smells like (...yet).

Scentsibility is just a simple blog of my thoughts and reactions to various samples that I scrounge as I go through London. I'm trying to focus on some of the more European fragrances, partially because I'd like to stand out a bit when I get back to the US. I'm sure I'll mix in some more well-known brands and houses along the way.

As always, the same fragrance smells wildly different on different people, so do NOT rush out and buy a bottle just because I say it's lovely. Body chemistry goes a long, long way -- my colleague Canadianne will be doing a Scentsibility cameo every once in a while, and we're always surprised how some fragrances I find absolutely wretched suddenly transform into something mystical and sexy on her.

Anyhow, I hope you enjoy following along. If you'd like more professional insights, there are plenty of really top-notch blogs out there which will be able to tell you all sorts of wonderful technical details. I admire them tremendously.