The Perfumed Dandy’s Happy Mothering Sunday Supplement

‘Twas Mothering Sunday two months ago here in Blighty… but I thought these suggestions might be of use to my American friends on the hunt for perfumed presents this weekend…

The Perfumed Dandy.

On the occasion of of Mothering Sunday, also known as Mother’s Day, here in the United Kingdom, The Perfume Dandy tips his hat and and presents a bouquet of flowers to mothers, grandmothers matriarchs everywhere.

Hurrah for mamas!!

The tradition in this part of the world derives from the practice of Christians returning to their mother church on the second Sunday in lent and combining the pilgrimage with a visit home to celebrate the day with their own mater.

Today as with Mothers Days in other parts of the world the occasion is marked with flowers, special meals and the giving of gifts…

All of which leads me to 10 scented last minute suggestions for sons and daughters who have perhaps mislaid their presents home… the shops here in London open at midday, so you better get your skates on!

1. The Earth Mother: Eau de Campagne by…

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6 responses to “The Perfumed Dandy’s Happy Mothering Sunday Supplement

  1. Dear Mr Dandy, It is almost Mother’s Day in Australia… tomorrow in fact. In preparation, I have composed a sonnet to Rose and here it is… for your ‘roseacious’ pleasure

    Rose is the deadliest of hunters. Rose waits for us all, stalking kings and queens at regal birth and spectacular dreams of deathbeds, Rose hovers, urging history’s truest lovers to swoon, for sweet tenderlings to dance and to tempt all lovelorn sighs, we pace and pass into shadows of regret, wistfully romancing the days of all time. Rose waxes feral, fey, oozing a single, glistening, jewelled bead of tempestuous, primordial sweat from deep within the rapacious heart of savage Rose. Companion upon misery’s most daunting road, we are welcomed and foresworn by such bouquets as Rose would grace. Rose shatters the airs with such heavy expectation, pouncing upon the hand, the nose, the eye, the lips of each unwary traveller, bending to honour the hunter upon the bush. Rose’s petal skin is so heavy and ponderous and so human that my hand, trapped, fondles the damp weight of such cool and cruel yearning, I am wrapped in hungry suffering, caught in the spiral game, the trap that Rose has laid for me and won. I am captive, captured, caught. Rose is wan, now drifting in such melancholic triumph, she plumply sags and wistful, I mourn her passing, never certain just how much of my soul, this heart, all wonder of the world is taken as she falls.

  2. I will be wearing either Private Collection or SSS Lieu de Reves!

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