Christmas. After the manic, excitable unwrapping that you really should have grown out of at the age of six, you're left with a mound of shiny, new stuff. Then you have to fit all of this stuff into places amongst all of the other stuff you already own. For me, this inevitably means that I have to throw away a lot of the stuff that's been comfortably settled in my room for some time to make some space (including some of the stuff that I got last Christmas and never used...) As I was embarking on this arduous task last week, I discovered that I have amassed a small collection of almost-empty deodorants. Odd and slightly worrying, I know, but stay with me here. Anyway, I was mildly surprised to find that the scent of each was accompanied by a powerful sense of memory. One made me think instantly of a formation dance competition I took part in at Blackpool, and I don't think I'm being too poetic in saying that the scent evoked a vague feeling of excitement tinged with nerves. Another brought me right back to when I started college over a year ago and the feeling of optimism was indubitable. Ignoring the fact that I'm clearly insane for sitting sniffing deodorants, I was struck by how powerful and strange sense of smell is.I frequently catch a scent that elicits a certain emotion; sometimes it's one I can't even pin down. It's a fleeting impression and then it's gone. For a split second, there's a link back to a moment in time. Sometimes I can identify the scent and sometimes I can't. I have been known to suddenly ask, "Can anyone smell a mixture of wax crayons and red liquorice?", or something along those lines. With some people, all I get is a perplexed stare that clearly means, "She's nuts, let's back away." Others completely understand what I'm talking about, and sometimes I even get a debate about whether or not it is in fact the scent of pink sherbert and not red liquorice that lingers in the air.
And smell preference is such a personal thing - I despise the smell of turpentine, the smell of cut grass and the smell of petrol, but I know people who love those smells. Equally, I love the smell of lemons but some can't stand it. I read a book once that had a character who was raised with no smell prejudice - she liked all smells, including those generally accepted as unpleasant. Is that possible, I wonder? Are those scents inherently displeasing or are we socially conditioned to think that? (The book, by the way, was 'Dr. Fell's Cabinet of Smells', by Susan Gates. I read a lot of her books when I was about eight; 'Killer Mushrooms Ate My Gran' was a particular favourite.)
Everybody's house has a smell. That's one thing which has always fascinated me. And the only people who don't know what that smell is are the inhabitants of that house. I would love to know what my house smells like, and I sometimes wonder whether or not I'll find out when I no longer live here. House smells are always indescribable but instantly recognisable, and almost everybody smells faintly of their own home.
There was an English teacher at my old school who was well known for being very, very scary. I usually find that most English teachers are lovely but this one, Mrs Daniels, had a ferocious temper and terrified everyone. I participated in a speaking competition once, and she decided to rewrite my speech that I'd spent hours composing, which made me unbelievably angry, but I was too intimidated by her to complain (another teacher confronted her for me, which earned her my unwavering admiration forever, I can tell you). I digress. The point is, Mrs Daniels always wore a very distinctive perfume. I sometimes encounter somebody else wearing the same perfume, and even after several years the scent still strikes a dim sense of fear into my heart.
According to some, smell is even more powerful than that. I found this article which claims that the smell of lemon cleaner can make you more generous. Who knew? Apparently, people link morality with cleanliness subconsciously, which means that when they smell the fresh, clean scent of lemon cleaner, they think of themselves as being more moral. Come on. That's interesting.
I leave you with a short anecdote. It involves another English teacher (completing a hat-trick of English teachers I've mentioned in this post) who asked my class to write a short descriptive piece on anything we wanted to write about. Some chose an idyllic location; others, an interesting posession. Me? I chose a speck of dust, and wrote four pages about it. When she marked my essay, she wrote at the bottom, 'Only you could make something so mundane sound so fascinating...' Fascinating, this post is not, but are you at all surprised that the girl who wrote four pages on dust can waffle about the subject of smell for 739 words?
