Readers of my previous blog will be
familiar with my fragrance obsession. Saturday is a floral day, inevitably. My
tuberose from Santa Maria Novella is almost two-thirds gone. So is this roll-on
rose fragrance oil I bought in Arab Street in Singapore. L’Artisan’s La Chasse
aux Papillons, therefore, had to step in and do its duty. Most fragrances that
remind us of our mothers and grandmothers are heady florals, or florientals,
concoctions of jasmine and rose and orange flower and iris anchored by musk or
amber (which sometimes registers in our minds as “powdery”).

Wearing La Chasse, I cannot be angry. I
flutter my fingers and tuck my hair behind my ears. I rediscover my eyelashes.
My skirt is long and sewn for breezes.