It’s an old lady’s smell. Or at least that is my particular association for it (or is it with it?). Nanny C. smelt of it and other elderly ladies of my acquaintance. They’d have it in florally-decorated metal containers with a hole-punched twisting lid. It was a cosy, smell. A feminine, nice, slightly prim smell. She’d just had her shower when we entered her room and it reeked of it. She did too. Reeked is the wrong word. For it implies something noxious. And it wasn’t. It was soft, self-effacing, overtly female but it was strong. I liked it. Though it revealed the intimate bodily ablutions that had just gone on. A sharing of which would probably not have pleased her. It’s a proud thing, that maintaining of femininity, against such odds. She does it well. Her skin is baby soft, thanks to the array of creams and lotions she keeps in the bags about her. She is always neat, self-contained. I admire her, so much.
