My hatred of really strong perfume began long ago, back in the days of yore. The really cool six-form girls at my school would always sit at the back on the bus, and get on last because they had to finish smoking their fags. As they passed by little pubescent me, sitting on an un-cool seat in the middle of the bus, I was transfixed by the blur of their Pat Benatar haircuts and paisley-print chiffon scarves. But then came the backlash: a mouthful of Impulse ‘Chic’, sprayed on as liberally as Raid on a wasp’s nest. Continue reading…
