Born near the sea, my first olfactory memory must have been the scent of iodine.
Born in the islands, my second memory was of a parcel sent by an aunt from mainland France: Snuggle-scented clothes mixed with melted chocolate. I never had the pleasure of wearing the clothes…
The smell of dampness evokes for me the family lands of the Fléchois region.
The smell of vanilla tea, the Mauritian Bois chéri, that my babysitter used to spice up with a dash of Nestlé condensed milk.
The exotic smell of frangipani.
My depressive uncle who reeked of geranium essential oil.
The sandalwood of an incense stick that burns when you read the tarot or concentrate on an astral theme.
The smell of chlorine, swimming competitions.
The smell of chocolate bread in the room next door during a hunger strike.
During a year at boarding school in Cergy in Europe, I discovered the scents of spring, the awakening of nature and its perfume.
The smell of rum, the smell of coffee in the morning.
Walking down the street and guessing the rose bushes over the hedges, finding that marvellous, after the bad experience of flowers from florists who are just beautiful.
The south, the smells of Provence that I’m having trouble sorting out, even though I can now distinguish thyme and lavender.
The smell in his hair, JPG2.
Tonight, I fall asleep slowly in an orange atmosphere carried by my new perfume burner.
(Article published on 22 February 2009)
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