Well, they say it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind …

If I didn’t know better I’d say someone stole my brain while I was sleeping. Hell, who knows. Maybe it did happen. Something’s up, that’s for sure. Has been heartfor a while, only I’ve just really become aware of it.

Kinda crept up on me, slowly. And it’s confusing the hell out of me, if you want to know.

When I look in the mirror it looks like me, but I don’t know, in some respects it sure doesn’t feel like me. Here’s the thing:

For as far back as I can remember myself — and trust me — it’s far, far, far back — I’ve been a city girl. I didn’t even know what suburbs were and I didn’t like ’em. All I knew was, sprawling ranch bungalows and big backyards and rock gardens and the sound of crickets and peace and quiet didn’t float my boat one bit.

It was always the city I craved. The more congested, the more traffic, the taller the buildings, the noisier — the more I liked it. My whole ‘being’ has always responded to the pulse, to the beat. It’s always made me feel ‘alive’. It’s always inspired me.

Gas fumes never bothered me. Neither did traffic, as long as I wasn’t stuck in it, behind the wheel of a car. I could sit in

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Of all the senses …

… the one I think is the most seductive, even more than ‘touch’, is our sense of smell. It is certainly the most evocative, at least it is for me. And it’s the most smelldifficult to capture with words. Which is why writing copy for a perfume can be so challenging.

Last week I wrote about memories and some of the triggers that cause them. A friend of mine commented on how scents trigger memories for her. She’s so right. They do. Powerful ones, at that. And then when I was at the market last week one of my first stops was for bread. No sooner did I idle up to the counter, then the sales gal helping me
inhaled deeply, sighed gently, smiled broadly and asked me if I was wearing patchouli.

She was referring to my perfume.

Indeed, it does have patchouli in it.

In case you’re not familiar with it, it’s rather woodsy, or musky. Earthy. I happen to love it; and every fragrance I’ve ever been attracted to has had patchouli as an ingredient. Not that I knew that until I dabbed the last few droplets remaining in my bottle of eau de toilette behind my ears.

Quite a while ago I blogged about the horror of having to find a new perfume after Gucci sold the Saint Laurent

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Moments in time …

It’s interesting, the things we remember from long ago. Really long, like our childhood. And what triggers those memories. Last week I called my aunt. The flashbackslast of my mother’s sisters who’s still alive. She’s far from young now and not so well and I guess, when I got off the phone, I was a bit melancholy. Ours had been such a large, and close knit family and there’s not many left.

I didn’t think much about it right after the call, but I guess it must have been weighing on my mind. Because days later, while reading, I suddenly had a flashback. I was really young, maybe three or four, five at the most. I was in a car. My grandfather was driving. My father was in the passenger seat. My aunt, this same aunt, her fiancé (very recent) and I were all sharing the back seat.

Like most little kids I was jabbering away. It was clear this was not my aunt’s idea of heaven. I could tell because she sighed a lot,

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Why are we in such a hurry?

Last week I wrote about taking the time to smell the roses. Well, it wasn’t roses, exactly. More like grass and peaches. But nonetheless, it’s made me acutely speedingaware of the fact we don’t seem to do it often enough. You know, take the time. We’re too busy speeding through life.

Why are we in such a rush? Who decided we should live in fast forward? Have you noticed how quickly we’re going? Like me, are you wondering why? Like me, do you ever feel we’re going so fast we’re spinning out of control?

Wouldn’t you like to just have a minute to catch your breath and enjoy the moment??

To really savour it. To take it all in. To make the most of it.

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The scent of summer …

Last Thursday morning when I returned home, from the market, they were mowing our front lawn. Yes, even though I live right in the heart of the city, in an grass clippingsapartment, we’re lucky enough to have lots of green, with both a large front and back garden. No concrete jungle here. We’re surrounded by lots of beautiful old homes, on gorgeous tree-lined streets.

Anyway, I LOVE the smell of freshly mowed grass. Always have, even when I was a child. It’s especially fragrant after it’s rained. No rain the other day.

But the scent was still so intoxicating I just had to stop in the middle of the driveway and inhale several times, breathing it all in, before making my way indoors. If I hadn’t been afraid the gardener would think I was completely out of my mind, I would have scooped up a handful and brought it upstairs with me.

Then I could have sat on my balcony, watching the world go by, sniffing away to my heart’s content.

In that instant I knew summer was well and truly here. Because to me, nothing says “summer” like the scent of just cut grass. Well that’s not quite true. This morning, as I made my way from my bedroom to the kitchen I seemed to walk right into a

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