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Trigger warning: This article includes discussion of death. Therefore, reader discretion is advised.
I’ve had a highly developed olfactory system all my life and whilst this is usually a blessing, it does, of course, have its downsides. When I was running a kitten rescue, I knew before I’d even opened my front door if a kitten had, unfortunately, had an accident out of the litter tray. On entering, my nose would guide me to exactly where the offending item was lurking.
I remember that as a child, my mother used to get me to sniff things to work out its component parts or whether something was or wasn’t on the turn (it was long before sell by/use by dates).
One incident which is clear in my memory happened when I was about seven years of age. After visiting an elderly gentleman with my mother (she was a seamstress who did alterations for people), I complained that he smelled funny. Mummy asked me to explain as she said she couldn’t smell anything and assured me that this particular gentleman was fit, active, well-dressed, and very particular about his personal hygiene. I explained that it wasn’t that kind of smell but that it was horrible and I didn’t like it.
I later learned that the man had advanced lung cancer and had passed away within 18 months of our visit.
When I had Freyja, my PAT registered Leonberger, I used to visit Hackney hospice each week as the patients loved her and she was really, really good at what she did. Sadly, almost immediately, I recognised that same smell.
I only had to get within three feet of a patient to know if the end was imminent. It’s a smell that I can’t describe, but, to me, it’s completely recognisable and totally different to the actual smell of death (which, coming from a family of undertakers, I unfortunately also recognise).
On the plus side, when entering a garden, walking along the street, or even parking in Tesco’s car park, I can immediately recognise wafts of honeysuckle, rose, and peony, as well as the scent of flowers of all shapes and colours. It’s like a whoosh up my nose. Though, it doesn’t stop there – it’s absorbed into my whole head and, bizarrely, I can often actually taste it too.
While it doesn’t taste like it smells, some scents do have distinctive tastes (or at least their component parts do). I can enter a house and know immediately if children or pets live there, and even what was cooked for dinner the day before. This isn’t because the place is whiffy, certainly not.
In fact, I would defy most people to identify any odours at all. I’ve learned through the years that my sense of smell is much more aware than most other people. If I concentrate, I can smell the coffee you had in the morning, the cardamom you used in a curry at the weekend, or what you used to wipe down your surfaces when cleaning. I can tell if your washing machine is on in the utility area and whether the clothes that you’re wearing were dried inside or outside, with or without conditioner.
Most of these everyday living smells are what I call soft scents. They attack the edges of the nose and are subtle, warm, and fragrant. They evoke images of comfort, usually mixed with the distinctly sharp, citrussy smells of freshness and cleanliness.
Garden smells are different. They’re more pungent and loamy. Mixed with the sharp, petrichor of rain, flowers compete to create a heady concoction of smoother, creamier scents which fill the nose, the different notes calling out, slithering and sliding over each other, their different component parts making up the whole.
I’ve planted three different roses and a lilac at the back of my parking area at home. The first scented rose is a wonderful (though horribly spiky) large orange bloom with a magnificent scent. I picked it up for £1 in a bargain bucket in the ‘sick plant’ section of a garden centre three years ago. I’ve no idea what she is, but she smells amazing; her distinct perfume is a mixture of rich, heady, slightly spicy scents that speak of warm, dark nights filled with twinkling stars.
The second, and in some ways the star of the show, is my Queen of Sweden rose. I went to a garden centre and was pulled in by her fragrance from the moment I stepped out of the car. Softer and more liquidy, but equally as strong, her small, full, pale pink blooms talk of bright sunshine and dappled shade, evoking scents of toffee and freesia, faint wafts of raspberry, and the sweetness of icing sugar.
Literally from all the way back on the road I’m blasted with the powerful aromas of rich, green freshness and the deep floral warmth of these roses, mingling sociably with the distinctive, slightly almondy, powdery, and romantic smells of the lilac. The moment I open my front door to go outside I’m bathed in their power. They make me instantly smile, the joy quite unbelievable.
So why am I writing this? Well, actually it’s the background to a strange event that I experienced yesterday. All day my nose was assaulted by the distinct smell of chocolate cake. The strong, earthy, nutty, powdery scent of rich fermented cocoa, tinged with a hint of sweet vanilla and the woody sharpness of vinegar. Why is this strange I hear you ask? Because I haven’t been near a chocolate cake in what seems like centuries since my diet.
I’m not talking about the smell of cocoa butter which can easily be identified and found in lotions and potions for the hands, hair, and even in cleaning products. No, I’m talking about the very distinct smell of a rich, full-bodied, dark chocolate cake. It was absolute torture…all day.
This morning, when I came downstairs, the smell was thankfully gone. But when I went to Tesco to get some fruit, I hotfooted it past the bakery and cake sections, averting my eyes just in case!
I refuse to add a picture of a chocolate cake!
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