The Nostril Quivers

The ancient art of perfumery has fascinated me for many years, even though I maintain no great or inextinguishable enthusiasm for manufactured fragrances. Neither, I hasten to add, do I harbor any shameful and secret fetish for genie-shaped bottle architecture. Indeed, to tell the absolute truth, I care not one olfactory nerve about expensive scent, whether it be pour homme, femme or even a particularly specific it. Baking soda deodorant and an occasional sprinkling of sport talc are my eaux de cologne of choice. It's just that I think concocting vast vats of lucrative smells called "Ganymede," "Tonto" or "Tiger Bay" would be a relatively easy business: a bit of elderberry mixed with passion flower, a pinch of spicey stuff from faraway, perhaps a little rose hip, a hodgepodge of Oriental herbs, alcohol base and I'm done. Alas, however, since I'm not already hyper-famous for a glittering catwalk of other fashionable and fabulous activities, my fragrances have got absolutely no chance of being stocked on department store shelves or airport duty-free shops. Still, there's always the automobile air freshener market, I suppose. Drivers only demand quality, not celebrity.