The Niff of Nihilism

Before this virus thing nearly killed me, I had a strange experience courtesy of theoclarke. I do not know this gentleman nearly as well as I would like to, I met him through mutual friends at a party and have found him to be an excellent chum in all things. So when he recommended the perfumes of Commes Des Garcons to me, I decided, in the spirit of olfactory adventure, to seek them out.

I love getting lost around Bond Street, where everything glitters in a slightly less cheapncheerful way and the allure of shop windows has mortgage eating capacity; Sothebys, Bulgari, Van Cleef and Arpel, Cartier, times and worlds I always associate with my mother. Away past all these wonders, I went to the Doverstreet market, to find the home of Comme Des Garcons, where I found a pyramid of perfumes. I tried Odeur 71 because it's got the most irresistably peculiar marketing, a perfume 'for an alien on an olfactory odyssey across the earth.' Apparently Odeur 71 incorporates smells such as 'photocopier ink, burnt out toasters, tyres, dust on a lightbulb...'Wow. I had to try.

And yes. It really does smell of electric short circuits and tyres, manga future, metal landscape. I'm impressed that they could do it, but they needn't have bothered on my account. It's anti-fairy, wear this and no hippy will ever cross your threshhold again. For some it may be worth the 70 quid they're asking. I personally discover I am not as sophisticated in my tastes as the gallant theoclarke considers. In the end I'm an old softy whose cutting edge is easily blunted by prittifings. I left CdG, niffing vaguely of burnt out white goods, and lurched my way towards illness without a single fairy guardian, all of them mortified by my eau de cold ironing board.

The weefee are back now, saving me from the edge of pneumonia. My temperature is now normal, and an awful lot of gunk seems to be emigrating from my lungs. Time to pull myself together and think. There is stuff to do.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Chums might be wondering why my talk is all bubble gum right now.

Why do I want Bond street and expensive perfumes and pointless shallow prettiness?

Well, apart from liking those things, I've been working on a story for which I've been getting help from the stories and histories of London. It's meant to be a horror story, and instead is just drearily horrific. But it's London all right, I know it so well it's as if I remembered it.

As with everything I write re London, the synchronicities that emerge are more interesting than the tale told. I've also been getting a little help from Messrs Blake, Hogarth and Punch, a curious but gifted combination. Even their prodigious talents cannot rescue my story, which is horrid only because of what human beings do rather than any supernatural monstrosity. I would like to put it on here for people's opinions, but at 4000+ words it's too long for lj. So it sits among my documents like the skeleton of Bill Sykes with a Santa hat on, white pompom dangling below his gumless grin. I'm glad I finished it, but I'm desperate for some Christmas cheer. Now is far kinder than yesteryear. Time for the Christmas tree! I demand eggnog!