Perfume is an undeniable treat for the nose. Its fresh, floral, fruity tones provide a carnival of pleasantries for even the most cynical of hooters. My Mum is in possession of some particularly luscious examples; her personal penchant for hints of vanilla underpinned by woody base notes of cedar and pine evident in almost every bottle she owns (except for that example of Cacharel's Anais Anais - its heavy handed dose of ylang ylang and Russian Leather clearly setting it apart as an impulse buy).
And although there is, without doubt, a scent to suit and stir every nasal cavity, the same can sadly not be said for the impact of these bouquets on the tastebuds. As I discovered this week, no matter how inviting the musk, no matter how enchanting the aroma, perfumes are absolutely NOT for the drinking.
I know. Crazy.
How can a bottle which houses such a fabulous fragrance mount such a brutally hostile attack on my harmless, innocent chops? Why would a substance which masquerades as a source of only love, light and virtue inflict such a sickeningly abhorrent flavour about my gullible, unsullied mouth? Which irresponsibly sadistic menace planned an odour to tempt, tease and tantalise one of my senses, while simultaneously harnessing a secret ability to permanently maim another?
Having this week sipped at a sample of colognes and toilettes, I can report that at no point in my eternal quest for hydration will my choice of liquor ever encompass a shot of perfume.
It just doesn't hit the spot in the way other more conventional liquids can. It doesn't quench.
Plus, consuming it has been known to cause incidences of death.
So, all in, I've decided it's not the tipple for me.
I'm sticking with milk.