Save! Save! Save!

In case there was any doubt, I hereby freely declare myself a puppet of multinational capitalist/consumer forces. On Wednesday out of the paper fell one of those ugly pamphlets advertising a fragrance and cosmetics sale. UP TO 80% OFF! and IMPORTERS CLEARANCE!, it screamed, too excited to worry about apostrophes. WHY PAY MORE? Why indeed? So off I went to town.
No point searching for metered parking the week before Christmas, so I drove into a parking building and took the lift down to the street.
The pavement outside the temporary premises (recently vacated, I was sad to discover, by one of the last city dress fabric shops) was clogged with customers and security men. Just inside the door, we were separated from our bags, and invited to take up a plastic bucket. I declined, not without a sniff of disdain. I had come here for one thing and one thing only. I had no intention of joining the lines of fervent women, and not a few men, edging past the trestle tables, inspecting every bottle, jar and tube, and slipping favoured items into their buckets. I would make a lightning strike and be out within minutes.
It took 30 seconds to locate where my perfume would be waiting for me. Another five for the helpful university student-assistant on the other side of the table to tell me it had long since sold out.
Motivated by what I see now was a vague but misplaced refusal to be beaten, I made a quick tour of the other tables, picking up a L'Oreal lipstick (excellent value at $9) and smudge-proof mascara (ditto at $7).
After queuing for the checkout and reclaiming my bag, I went across the road to Kimberley's. After a quick flick of the racks I was sensibly on my way out when I noticed a useful, summery swing t-shirt reduced from $69 to $48. Done.
Next, I nipped down to Kirks to pick up sheer black footless tights - $18.99 and not on sale - to wear to the Christmas tango ball tonight. I was back at my car within the hour, so only had to hand over $4.
The upshot of this failed mission to buy perfume for $40 less than usual? A total spend of $87. 

I don't "Love Love".

At least, not enough.

I mean, this is how they market it. That thing on the upside of the model's head that's topped off by the orange bill is its bottle. Not exactly targeted at women of a certain age, is it? I might have only recently lost my perfume virginity, but I do have some pride.

E and I had fun in the store, alternately sniffing those little paper strips and ducking our noses into the coffee beans.


I ended up with Davidoff's Cool Water. Which comes in this dignified  bottle.









 And look, my dears, at how they market the man's version.

 I'm off to have a cold shower.

Sweet-smelling, after all these years

Until late last year, I never wore perfume. No, not quite true. When I was on the brink of becoming a pregnant teenage bride, my husband-to-be arrived in London with a little box of six perfumes he'd picked up duty free, en route from Wellington. The only one I remember is Worth's Je Reviens (as indeed he had).  I also remember that within minutes of applying it, I felt nauseated and longed to escape its aura. No dice - it was the real deal, not eau de toilette, and it stayed and stayed.

This sickening effect survived the pregnancy. Any time I came into contact with a smear of perfume, I would feel squeamish. A feeling like motion sickness, or giddiness. As if, by being prevented from smelling my natural Plain Jane smell, I became disoriented and couldn't find myself. So for years I adeptly dodged those young women who try to ambush you near cosmetics counters. And, since the X claimed to dislike bottled smell too (well, he was an old hippie), odiferously unadorned I remained.

Until, late last year, I met M. M, for an impressive array of reasons, was a romantic disaster area, but the two lasting legacies of our brief intense liaison were tango, and, yes, perfume.

We'd been going out (as they call it) barely a week when he turned up at my house unannounced, with an armful of gifts (no, he wasn't Greek so I failed to beware). An array of tango dresses plus fragrance in a bottle.


What sort of a feminist lets a new lover shower her with perfume she doesn't use and five dresses (yes, five: they turned out to be symptoms rather than garments) of a type she's never worn in her life and never wanted to? My sort, apparently.

Getting any kind of present makes me feel loved, and since I'd been to a couple of milongas with M, I was already captivated by tango and thrilled by the dresses. I mean, look at them - what girly nonsense.

I was less certain about the fragrance, Armani's Mania (aptly named), but obligingly sprayed it on. I liked it. M, equally thrilled by the whole business, explained he'd chosen it because he too wore Amani and the two "fitted". More joy on the part of the naive recipient.

Within three weeks, M was a goner. But Mania remained. I spray it on when I go dancing or to any other social function. It smells of good times and dressing up. It smells happy. (The dresses are another story. Curious that I photographed them within a day to two of getting them, as if I knew they'd only be temporary guests. They became the subject of wild accusations that ended the affair and, under cover of darkness, were stuffed back into M's letterbox. I had worn two of them.)

A week or so after M's house call, we went shopping for tango shoes for me (which is another story). On the way, we called in at the store on Willis Street where he'd bought Mania. I tried a few other scents, between sniffs of coffee beans to cleanse the nostrils, and found one I really liked. Citrusy, happy (although I suspect that last adjective isn't included in the arcane lexicon of perfumology). Unfortunately, it was called I Love Love. Can you imagine striding up to a counter and asking for that? So far, I haven't managed it. I've investigated buying it online, but then I couldn't have another sniff to see if I still like it. So I shall have to go to the store and ask for it, sotte voce, by name.  I shall report back.