Yesterday afternoon, while perambulating the perimeter of East Ardsley reservoir with Coco the lab, I passed a young couple (late 20s/early 30s) when something occurred to me. During this ephemeral moment, upon receiving a waft of the ladies perfume, it struck me I’ve not worn aftershave for over a year.
Twelve months of prolonged isolation has resulted in me having no real need to splash on eau de cologne. I’m not gonna wear expensive aftershave just to doss around the house or when sauntering for foodstuffs at my local Tesco Express.
God, I’ve probably only washed myself on half of the days in the previous year, never mind taking my grooming regime up to a plateau where I’d adorn my Tom Ford aftershave. It’s a lovely fragrance, but barely a redolence with sits naturally as an accompaniment to a day undertaking chores and writing.
GJ Strachan’s more likely to be adorning the scent of Coco slobber than Coco Chanel these days. My affectionate canine chum affording me liberal facial licks on a frequent basis. An odour that’s not anywhere near aromatically pleasant as Tom Ford aftershave. However, as it’s delivered with such love, and I don’t get close enough for anybody to be subjected to this questionable bouquet, I’ll live with it.
Akin to not wearing male fragrances, apart from antiperspirant, within the past twelve months I’ve also not worn a smart shirt, casual/smart jackets, any footwear apart from sneakers and only adorned a suit once (for a funeral). Any attire I’d don for socialising laying superfluous since March 2020 when coronavirus came calling.
Hopefully, this currently redundant clothing can avoid moth damage prior to once again being afforded licence to attend the ball. That reminds me, I best check that glass slipper still fits.
As with many individuals on this sceptred isle, my dress code over the past 365 days has mainly consisted of jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, shorts and on particularly lazy days pyjama bottoms. Everyday a dress down day for lots of the long-suffering global populace.
My little canine buddy will be returning home with her mum in a few days and the Coco slobber eau de cologne will abate for a while. I’ll be returning to the natural redolence of GJ Strachan sweat for a week or so. A musky scent which, taking into account I was stung fifteen times last year, appears to induce wasps into even more aggressive and frequent attacks than usual.
If I have the same issues with the little stinging machines this summer, my daily dress code over the summer may become a beekeepers suit; which I’d imagine will afford the same protection from attack by my yellow and black hooped nemesis’ as it does with bees.
Anyhow, I’m going to bring down the curtain on this literary frolic. My tonne of moth balls from Amazon have just arrived.
