KaliP

The first moment makes me think of hazmat cabinets in the chemistry lab. Alcoholic-synthetic, Meliseptol disinfection of the work surface. Aldehydidic.
Not attractive at all.
Then it smokes and smokes unpleasantly bitter and dry, it really scratches the throat.
Too wet wood probably. Or dried tea leaves.
I don't know anything about Ceylon or Mate, I prefer Darjeeling.

I can see the currant emerging from the haze.
My grandpa's black Johanna, which was always in my grandparents' fridge, smelled like this. There remains something burnt about her, though, something medicinal.
Maybe I should hold the fruit over the flame of my gas stove sometime?

Rubbing my wrists together, the warmth awakens a dusty library full of old scrolls, stored on rotten wooden shelves in a sanitized basement by the glow of a rusty kerosene lamp.

Not to be underestimated. What remains is eccentric and anything but ordinary. I wonder if I'd want to smell like this every day I have pretty mixed feelings about that

I'm all drunk.
My first impression from the sample. Sharp and biting. A freshly cracked peppercorn. Nutmeg + sledgehammer.

Suddenly something floral, a flash in the passing fast train.

Within seconds, fresh whiskey distillate matures under my nose for 25 years in oak barrels.
I see dark, wooden bar counters, handsome men in their prime in expensive suits sitting in even more expensive lounge furniture, with fat cigars, enjoying good drops while talking business and their handicaps.
A black Steinberg in the background, playing smooth and slow. Wisps of smoke billow outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the Thames in foggy, rainy London. Outside, grey-blue twilight, the drops of rain beading down the panes.... inside, golden glow. Amber embers in lead crystal ashtrays.
Wooden floor.

Lots of wood. Resinous wood. Tropical woods soaked in oil. Balsamic wraps around your finger. The accords penetrate my every pore. I would want to smell this scent on my favorite man....

Once my grandmother showed me what she understood by sweets in her childhood.
Heat butter in a saucepan until it turns slightly brown,
then add the sugar and mix until it liquefies.
It is a tricky thing not to let the viscous mass get too hot.
The narrow burr melts between edible and inedible.
Basically, it's just cute. Buttrig creamy and pure sugar.
Herbe chords adjust after a while, which take some of their volume away from the thing.
If you think tuberose in Mutiny is flowery, I can't agree with you.
A scent for cold days in dark wooden huts with candles, fur in front of the fireplace and something freshly baked.
Liquid gold, shining threads and the very great opulence when one is turned towards it. Long sequined robes and clinking champagne flutes. Cheers!

By the way, ordinary butter caramel remains in the pot.
Who tries immediately, will burn his tongue badly. Maybe even Mutiny?
I can't quite assign his name to the fragrance. The big exception to the rule remains guilty.
In the douglas´schen overabundance it is untergebuttert sang and soundlessly.
It has a moment from the first Olympéa.
And the sample sinks into the casket just as carelessly as its six predecessors.
I yawn and keep watching my show.

The other day I stumbled across the Jo Malone bar in a Douglas. Finally.
Two favorites.
One order.
Extensive test on arrival.
Basil & Neroli - I was thinking of well-off, older ladies with very expensive leather handbags and fur collars,
who do their shopping at the KaDeWe. They are wrapped in elegant fabrics and this fragrance, which they leave behind in the corridors of the luxury department store between cashmere pullovers, fine dark chocolates and champagne bottles.
I see high tea and english decadence with golden spoons and clotted cream.
Now I would like to wear brocade and stroke velvet pads, dark woods around me and an expensive whisky.

The large windows in the living room and bedroom are wide open. From far away you can already hear the thunder, still quiet and hard to distinguish from a truck on the country road, but it is Sunday.
Out of sheer clumsiness, I spray Mon Paris right in my face. No joke, I save my eye only just before the big drop, which I did not expect.
I can even say something about the taste of the perfume of Yves Saint Laurent ..
It's tart and fresh. Reminds me of summer days in crowded pedestrian precincts of financially strong cities, where many women have a high opinion of themselves. There in the boutiques and cafés you can smell it
Or at Douglas'. When you walk in, it's sort of this basic scent that welcomes you
It's kind of fruity, but that'll pass.
In the meantime, one thunderstorm later, I am bored like all the new ones, which call themselves different and yet smell the same. A little warm, some champagne, a little chicimicki, not exciting enough and not different at all. Too much citrus reminds me of various cleaners... I'm as little a fan as of Black Opium and its siblings. Slowly YSL is getting more and more unsympathetic to my perfume.
So I stay on the path of search and am glad that this was only a short, harmless shower in the form of a free sample. Whereby a real impact would have brought light into the darkness once again.