An aroma is risen… Tweed by Lentheric The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

The weather was too warm for wool.

Not windy nor crisp enough to merit the heavy woven cloth in houndstooths, Princes of Wales and other checks she chose to wear to church that Easter.

Then, she could hardly be said to be one for fashion.

Stuck somewhere in the last mid-century so far as cut was concerned, her skirt would have been at home in the wardrobe of a Bakelite suburban housewife with dreams of swapping her ’50s semi for a life in the Cotswolds.

She still tucked in silk her blouses and lacquered her defiantly neat hair years after women two decades her senior had moved onto mousse.

Her feeling was that good things last, that everything, including style, must come around again.

“Even…”, she laughed, recalling a film popular in her Cambridge days…

“Even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day”.

She stood alone in her pew in a moderate example of one of the great multitude of Gothic barns built across the metropolis to accommodate the deluge of extended Victorian families at prayer. Today it was empty bar a few oddballs, herself included, and refugees from climes where belief has not perished; and she felt her faith breaking.

Maybe good things didn’t last, perhaps happiness was a once only offer.

Was it possible that the passion she had then was never to be resurrected?

The priest, as bright and shiny as the copper pans in his beautifully appointed kitchen she’d seen the night he and his husband invited her round for dinner, spoke movingly about Syria.

How quickly the suffering of millions had slipped silently from view he said, how it seemed to be the fate forever of The Holy Lands to be locked in turmoil.

She reflected that perhaps in a past time the preacher might have mentioned ‘purgatory’: that the poor souls living with cousins, brothers, friends in Beirut and the Beqaa valley might have been thought to be trapped somewhere between salvation and hell.

But this cellophane-wrapped, well-meaning, linen-suited, vanilla-scented young man was by his own admission ‘not much for theology’ or ‘religious metaphor’. Besides, she guessed he was probably struggling both with the uncivilly early start of the dawn Eucharist and the literalism of Christ’s rising, this Sunday more than most.

When the communion wine came it was sharp, just a fraction off where the vinegar held to The Dear Lord’s mouth must have been. Just citrus enough to be palatable. Softened by the strange vacant sweetness of the host that preceded it.

The portion was generous, almost more than a mouthful. There were so few of them and he seemed keen to empty the ewer.

She walked back to her seat through the slight fug of the incense that he allowed only at this time of year. She was glad of this one concession to tradition, and that the pews had lasted one final season.

Come Christmas they would be on scatter cushions.

Taking her place back in the congregation she felt a tear running down her left cheek, though she hadn’t noticed she’d been crying. This made her sadder, for it meant she must be nearly this unhappy almost all the time.

The service over, she straightened herself and, with great effort, brightened her face. The makeup, liberally, though unshowily applied, helped. She hoped it hadn’t run.

Approaching the vicar, his towelling soft and slightly childish perfume met her a few paces in advance. It did not appal her, though it did not appeal either, and she very was pleased her aroma was by contrast so spry and what she fancied to be vigorous smelling.

“My don’t you smell out-doorsy, Catherine!”

His smile reached from ear to ear and revealed teeth so immaculate that even the most beneficent god would surely not have furnished them to any other than his own son. So white, so regular, so perfect. She suspected man’s intercession.

Happiness radiated from him, and though Catherine suspected he didn’t really understand the intricacies of the religion he represented, one could not help but feel that he was an innocent enough embodiment of its hopeful teaching.

She left, if not lifted up, then better for having made an early start.

The day was bright and already, at just eight, the sun provided a little warmth.

Having no hurry to go home, she decided to take a turn via the flower market, wondering on the way if it would be diminished on account of the holidays.

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She needn’t have feared; Columbia Road was a riot of tulips, running a mock in the increasingly outrageous colours dreamt up by geneticists to keep sales from flagging. More and more they resembled the wildest Murano glass vases she was endlessly eyeing up in antiques shops. Always scared to take one home, lest it prove a little too loud for its surroundings.

Today was not a tulip day.

In fact, among all the flowers, she had the sensation of being between rows of beautiful corpses.

The already dead stems seemed to lack lustre and she longed for something alive so headed for the few stalls of pot plants and shrubs towards the back. Here, her instant temptation was to go for a herb.

Some rosemary, so practical and hardy. Just like herself. No.

Then she saw it. In an improbable imperial purple pot: a great patch of lavender. Bright green leaves softer and less fragrant than the usual sort, with flowers as big and fat and furry as giant mauve bumble bees, suspended at the end of eighteen inch stalks like shadow puppets feigning flight.

For the second time that morning something broke within her, this time it was not faith but self-control that snapped. Without quibble on price or considering where she could find enough sun to keep the plant thriving she bought it and resolved to catch a cab, not the bus, home.

“He’s slept in this year.”

The taxi driver said.

“I beg your pardon.”

Catherine could see his eyes in the rear view mirror, younger than the average cabbie’s, or perhaps drivers like policemen simply get younger as we age.

“He’s slept in. That’s what my grandmother used to say when Easter falls so late.”

She smiled, their gazes met for a moment in reflection.

“It’ll be this Spring sun that’s woken him. Puts life back into us all, don’t you think?”

“Do you know anything about lavender plants?”

Catherine asked, willing him to look at her again.

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If ever there was an excellent example of a moderately priced perfume done to perfection then Tweed by Lentheric in its vintage composition is it.

Sharply, but unfussily sophisticated. This is a scent with an air of self-assurance almost impossible to find for small money these days.

It is a fragrance that seems to have been designed and made to fulfil the ambitions of the wearer rather than please the saccharine fantasies of those who would smell it.

Based on a formulation dating as far back as the 1930s, this is a classic chypre construction paired back not to the minimum, but the essentials.

A spiced citrus opening with a pinch of peppered carnation also has a chemical punch that leads one to conclude there may be some aldehydes in this version.

Indeed the opening has a distinct air of hair spray when it was a luxurious, amorphous near-magical beauty aid to be admired and inhaled.

This allusion will, no doubt, cause some to recoil from its synthesised, stylised understanding of glamour as alien as organised religion in an atheistic world.

Very soon after an aromatic floral heart, with equal measures of lavender and blended white florals, with some ylang ylang for piquancy blossoms briefly before the main event.

For this is a scent, like so many of its era, all about the oakmoss. The moss here is a lighter shade and more effervescent (possibly the consequence of the aforementioned chemical enhancement) than many contemporaries.

The word radiant seems to suit it, for it achieves a weightlessness and aeration that is not normally associated with the note. This is bought with a certain artificiality, but to my mind at least is worth the price, for the result is more art than mere artifice.

The patchouli here is applied much more lightly than one might expect and the drydown belongs as much to the interplay between vetiver and moss, sandalwood and benzoin as it does to the herbaceous border.

The final softness of the scent is a long time coming as the wooden heart is satisfyingly enduring, but when it does come, it is worth waiting for.

How one wishes they made perfumes like Tweed today: chic, affordable, complex, filled with character and with something to say.

This is an exemplary antidote to the anodyne aromas one finds around for under £10 now.

Is it too much to hope for a resurrection of such good scents?

Happy Easter one and all.

See you again most awfully soon.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Sul y Blodau Ten Fragrances of Remembrance The Perfumed Dandy’s Sunday Supplement

theperfumeddandy:

It’s been so busy of late, The Dandy’s been unable to post. However, I found time as always yesterday to observe this old tradition I remarked on in a quieter moment last year. In remembrance of times past…

Originally posted on The Perfumed Dandy.:

Dearest Ones

A word of explanation.

Where The Dandy hails from, in certain parts of about the most rural part of Britain where the most beautiful language of Cymraeg, also known as Welsh, is spoken, today is a rather special day.

Sul y Blodau, literally “Sunday of the Flowers” is the name given to the Sunday before Easter, known as “Palm Sunday” elsewhere in the English speaking world.

Here an ancient tradition of decorating Christian churches ahead of the forthcoming festivities has metamorphosised into a utterly moving celebration.

In place of decorating places of worship, the day is marked by the placing of flowers of remembrance on the graves or resting places of those departed. Or by decorating the home with blooms as a keep sake of those who are now gone forever or those merely temporarily absent.

Despite the awful weather today, The Dandy knows that churchyards and…

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That inescapable Eureka moment…! The Perfumed Dandy’s Fragrant Forum

Today The Dandy wonders…

Just when do you come over all Archimedes?

By which of course one doesn’t mean when do you become an astronomer, mathematician, physicist, engineer and inventor of Classical Antiquity…

But, when does the penny drop?

At what moment do you decide that you simply must have a scent?

Are you a love at first sniff sort of person?

Do you deliberate, cogitate and consider before adding to your collection?

The Dandy wishes, as you may speculate… well… I’ll tell all, if you do!

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Premature Muguet Elation… Muguet du Bonheur by Caron The Perfumed Dandy’s Scent Today

IMG_20140405_104959 Okay. OK!

One admits it’s not May….

And therefore technically not the season for lily of the valley. IMG_20140405_103915

But heavens to betsy, on occasion one simply can’t resist!

And what’s perfume for if not to play with the seasons anyway? IMG_20140405_103233

In vintage cologne form, Caron‘s Muguet du Bonheur is a golden bar of gently aldehydic faux florality.

Antique, fleeting, savon pur and utterly, if momentarily, prepossessing. IMG_20140405_102106

There’s the usual talk of soapy, dusty, short-lived and, at once, elderly.

Nothing of the sort.

As light and bright as late Spring sunshine filtered through white blossom, this is nonchalant perfume for longer, warmer days and walking with no purpose other than being outside.

A scent worthy of its golden lid and splendid insignia. IMG_20140405_111206

Whilst I have chosen my own aroma on this occasion, another opportunity to place a new perfume on The Dandy‘s skin will arise with the next instalment of The Perfumed Dandy’s Hit Parade.

In the meantime if you would like to thrust forward a fragrance for future fame on The Hit Parade simply visit ‘Suggest and old scent or recommend a new one’ and leave your suggestion there.

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Have an especially fragrant day.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy. The Perfumed Dandy

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Sculpture and scent…. The Perfumed Dandy Picks Fragrant Pairings for Chihuly

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Sounds a little like a tongue twister that title, no?

Thank you for all your magnificent olfactory recommendations for aromas to match Mr Chihuly’s creations.

Here are some thoughts of The Dandy‘s

Blue

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Red Danders, Night Club , Nineties

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Animal

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Amber

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Green Anemone

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Head of Narcissus

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Chandeliers

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Lights At The Odeon

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Vessels

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Writhing Smoke

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Medusa

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The Kick Inside

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Hyacinth

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Period.

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Departure in Glass

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Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, just occasionally, scents were paired with sculptures?

They do it with music… a string quartet here a jazz band there.

Why not a flacon, a bottle or atomizer to keep the noses amused?

Do tell what you thought of my humble offerings.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Abstract in April… The Perfumed Dandy is Inspired Again

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March was a maelstrom.

A magnificently busy month, crammed with meetings and movement, people and places, but sadly, very little perfume.

As exciting as the last thirty one days have been, they have also been remarkably, regrettably unscented.

Time to put that right.

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A chance visit to a Bond Street gallery where the American artist Dale Chihuly, the man who is to glass as Dan Flavin was to electric light and Andy Warhol to silk screens, has a show on has quite reinvigorated The Dandy.

Strange how the senses are so connected: the sight stimulated, smell craves the same treatment.

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A few images today that just miss capturing the all encompassing joyfulness of this collection of seemingly organic man made, hand blown glass enormities.

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Tomorrow, some scents to go with these amphorae, vases and jars.

Their amorphous forms are so suggestive of aromas… perhaps you have a few fragrant thoughts of your own.

Openings

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Tulips

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Red Storks, Green Snakes, Blue Flamingos

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Chandeliers

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Anemone

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Amber

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Scarlet

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Hyacinth

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Departure

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Any olfactory ideas occur?

If they did do share.

I will tomorrow.

Hope you liked the images.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

Dale Chihuly: Beyond The Object is showing at the Halcyon Gallery 144-146 New Bond Street, London through 21st April 2014

All photographs by The Dandy with kind permission.

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Unsatisfactory engagements… Coco Noir by Chanel The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

“For Chrissake don’t put your elbows on the bar!”

Chrissy catches the articulations of Claire’s arms in the palms of her hands, cupping them centimetres from the sticky surface below, just before they make contact.

“That counter’s as tacky as fly paper” she says.


“And you’ve no idea who or what’s been on it.”

Claire is crestfallen to have been interrupted in mid-performance of her favourite expression of exasperation: elbows plonked onto whatever object, table, shelf, bed, bar, presents itself before her; face flopped into tulip-ed hands, fringe forward, eyes wide, lashes fluttering occasionally.

It is a look she fancies gives her the air of a gamine sixties pop starlet: a singing Twiggy or the English Francoise Hardy.

Sadly this is a delusion she has carried around at least the last two decades, for in reality she began by looking like a petulant schoolgirl protesting to be allowed stay out an hour later and now resembles a prematurely ageing trophy wife angling for a new kitchen.

Chrissy crosses herself for harbouring such malevolent, ungenerous thoughts, even if they are a good deal more than half true.

“Why the hell are we meeting here anyway?” moans Claire in an upwardly inflected whine that is the aural equivalent of the recently aborted head-flop.

Intended to be youthful insouciance all charming and cool, it is plain irritating and anachronistic on a woman of nearly forty.

“Can mannerisms be described as mutton dressed as lamb?” Chrissy wonders to herself.

Why are they here?

Claire is pre-occupied, as ever, with her phone: tweeting or texting or mailing or participating in whatever new activity she’s found this week and finds preferable to actually engaging with the world, the person, in front of her.

Why are they here, in this creepy basement Soho bar, near where they used to work together a dozen years ago?

Why does this place still exist with its outmoded list of once chic twists on classic cocktails, its black décor lacquered with human sweat, spilt drinks, tears, broken emotions and other human secretions?

Why are they still friends?

Outside it’s Spring.

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Bright, too-white-to-be-Summer sunshine is illuminating pretty girls in this seasons stand out colour coats and encouraging advertising boys who have been working on their bodies all Winter in gyms to roll up sleeves and remove jackets to show hard curves under fitted shirts.

In here it is perpetual Autumn. A twilight world where overgrown adolescents pretend after a youth they are not yet prepared to admit they have lost.

Lost boys and girls listening to music from seventeen or more years ago, sipping sugary solutions that were once edgy and are now no more than safe.

Freelancers playing hooky from careers that never truly came into being. Well dressed, almost well paid, just comfortable enough to be prepared to ignore to pain: things just aren’t everything they’d hoped for.

Things aren’t anything like they’d hoped for.

Why are they here?

“She’s here!”

Claire, sees her first, rises from her stool and snaps Samantha on her phone as she descends the stairs.

They all air kiss.

“I’ll post it” she says referring to the image on the glowing screen.

“After I’ve done some work on it, of course.”

Chrissy just feels sick as they order three dirty martinis and get ready to talk about old times.

Coco Noir by Chanel is a truly pathetic perfume.

Worse than that, it is a downright depressing smell.

Devoid of ambition, imagination, flair, flamboyance, elan, emotion, wit, style or substance it is a cynical, puerile, joyless piece of olfactory junk.

This is a lowest common denominator fragrance by numbers.

To offer a description is almost to flatter it.

Linear and, in terms of projection, strong.

It lasts a long, long time.

Sweet, cheap, fruity, patchouli, plastic balsamic with cellophane bagged spices.

References abound to other past ‘triumphs’ from the House of Chanel, all post No. 19, of course.

Yet they are in-jokes, self-parodies almost, painful self-inflicted pastiches.

Really, why did they bother?

Can’t Chanel do any better?

When did they last do any better in the mainstream?

Not a happy experience, and to my mind no pleasure, guilty or otherwise at all, The Dandy genuinely couldn’t wait to get it off my skin.

That said, after a short break for ho-hum reasons, it is so very good to be back again.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Brisk spring walks in sunshine and… Tweed by Lentheric The Perfumed Dandy’s Scent Today

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The outdoors.

Oakmoss. Wildgrass. Hedgerow herbs and lavender.

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Something of the hunting set. Gun polish perhaps?

Or spiced rum toddies sipped surreptitiously from hip flasks.

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One does hope the scent lives up to the promise of its provenance and that evocative name…

In this game you can’t run with the fox and chase with the hounds!

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Following its selection by your good selves in the extraordinary Guilty Pleasures Hit Parade, The Perfumed Dandy will now take a few days to deliberate and cogitate the merits and mischiefs of this fragrance fair or foul and will, in due course, provide his report on relations with the new discovery by means of a scented letter.

Another opportunity to place a new perfume on The Dandy‘s skin will arise with the next instalment of The Perfumed Dandy’s Hit Parade.

In the meantime if you would like to thrust forward a fragrance for future fame on The Hit Parade simply visit ‘Suggest and old scent or recommend a new one’ and leave your suggestion there.

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Have an especially fragrant day.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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The Night They Invented… Chantilly by Houbigant The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

It isn’t that she isn’t modern, mostly.

She has the career: e-publishing; the commute: Piccadilly line, nine stops to town; the mortgage, the independence, responsibilities and bills.

It’s simply that now she asserts her right to retreat.

No, that sounds like a defeat, and, emphatically, it isn’t.

For when she decides on certain days to refuse to heed the calls of colleagues and the computer, it is a retrenchment on her own terms not a strategic failure or business battle lost.

She became the boss precisely so she could, if not on a whim, then when the need arose, set up stall in bed amongst doubly plush duck down pillows with a book and pot of orange and all spice tea and plan to do with the day as she pleased.

Today she pleases to take a bath, a long slow one, and to look out the window all the while at the white blossom just freckling the recently winter-bare trees. Life at last after those deathly months.

Emerging from the water, our Venus of north west three is a cloud of scented steam goddess, formed from the vapours of Moroccan rose oil and the bag left over from her earlier citrus tisane tipped carelessly into the roll top tub.

Because, you understand, she can.

When dry, she fashions another fog, this time out of ancient “silkening powder”, talc to anyone except the ad men that christened it, and proceeds to perform swirls of quiet rapture in this dusty sweet haze of her own creation.

Vanilla.

Icing sugar.

Sandalwood shaving soap.

White chocolate truffles and Champagne.

“Gigi”

She whispers to herself. With a flourish worthy of a Hollywood choreographer she swipes condensation from the bathroom mirror now transformed into her close-up camera.

She fixes the new-made lens a smile and sings…

“Gigi!”

The day from here will be plain sailing: satin pyjamas, improper foodstuffs and French Belle Epoch musical theatre made for film.

She will watch Leslie Caron become a woman rather than a courtesan, discover effervescent wine all over again, eat confectionery stuffed with crème Chantilly and fall in love, once more, this time forever, with Louis Jourdan.

She will rewind and watch favourite scenes over, sing along to loved songs, pre-empt well-worn lines, notice new details in décor and rekindle old envies over costumes and hats.

She will wish she was born then and then know it’s not true.

Her emotional equilibrium restored, she will remember that she’s content to be what she is right now.

Thoroughly modern with merely old fashioned moments.

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Imagine the comforts and indulgence of a day spent in the company of one’s duvet, a favourite old film and divine but devilishly-bad-for-one food.

That day made fragrance is Chantilly by Houbigant. IMG_20140225_112401

This is a Gigi of a scent.

It’s possible that my vintage had lost a little of the sharpness of the orange note that opens affairs, it was still there, but muffled, almost alcoholic, more Cointreau than citrus per se.

The florals too are more muted than opulent, but rose, spiced and dry is present and thoroughly pleasant.

Orange blossom is paired with a bright white musk which explodes into a joyful powder keg cloud that dominates the middle part of the perfume.

Some people will no doubt object to this stage of the scent’s development, a little akin one imagines to a ballet troupe’s dressing room before a performance of Swan Lake: all metaphorical feathers and a literal pall of brilliant make up poudre. 

In The Dandy though, its tantalising suffocating texture by turns sweet then chalky, excites an urge to waft arms and languidly raise limbs as though performing a contemporary dance bathed in dry ice.

This is a fragrance that seems to induce a sense of slow motion, like a Busby Berkeley set piece or an MGM big number.

The dry down is soft sandalwood in extremis. Tempered just slightly by vanilla and those mixed spices.

A funny thing here, for the last hour or so Chantilly smells almost exactly like The Dandy’s favoured shaving soap. It’s an elegant affair in wooden dish from a notable perfume house mixed to a cream with a horsehair brush. Mixed to a cream.

That’s the thing, for in the midst of everything else that’s going on scent does have an undeniable creamy element: a nod to the eponymous culinary creation.

Perhaps Chantilly was named for the lace, but on the skin and in the soul the feeling is pure cream. IMG_20140225_111950

And just like Crème de Chantilly be you homme or femme, when the mood takes you so will this scent.

No need for guilt at all, this is pure pleasure!

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy. The Perfumed Dandy

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The Devil has all the best tunes………. The Perfumed Dandy’s Guilty Pleasures Hit Parade

Heavens above!!!

Or should that be hellfires below!?!

Satan, so they say, has all the most enviable songs… but does he have the best scents as well?

To kick off our little trip to the dark side in “The Perfumed Dandy’s Guilt-Free Guilty Pleasures” season a poll…

No, not the heathens-dancing-to-their-doom-around-a-maypole sort of poll… a vote… an election.

A Special Edition of The Hit Parade!

From the cornucopia of questionable perfumes you mentioned in the recent grand confessional of clandestine fragrant passions I have selected a dozen favourites.

Cast your three lucky votes for any of the tantalizing twelve scents below to decide which diabolical aroma The Dandy will wear this Friday 14 March 2014.

Charlie by Revlon

Musk by Jovan

Purr by Katy Perry

Lily of The Valley by Crabtree & Evelyn

Joop! by Joop

Fame by Lady Gaga

Tweed by Lentheric / Taylor of London

Midnight Fantasy by Britney Spears

Red Door by Elizabeth Arden

Chance by Chanel

Brut by Faberge
(Vintage & Wild Card Entry)

Dolce and Gabbana by Dolce & Gabbana

You have until 1200 hours, that’s midday in old money, Greenwich Mean Time Thursday here in London to cast your vote.

The winner will be announced around the same time on Friday!

In case you’re thinking there are a few of your favourite guilty pleasures missing from this pick… it’s surprising just how many of them you’ve already voted to the top of The Hit Parade!

Not so secret after all it sems…

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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