Scents and sensibility

At McCafe, where I'd queued up for coffee and cheesecake, I was waved ahead to the front of the line, which I'd put down to respect for age till my wife assured me it was because I smelled like a malodorous perfumery, the result of an hour spent with my son at a duty free store in a Macau mall. We'd sniffed at Davidoff's Hot Water and Chanel's Egoiste, tested the YSL, argued over what constituted day and nuit after-shaves, and whether it was better to choose cloying scents or floral fragrances for Delhi's heat.

The sales girls thought to resolve our differences by spraying strips of paper from the testers and waving them under our noses. But ever since a perfumer had educated me on each skin-type's ability to hold scents, I'd insisted on testing eau-de-colognes the way they ought to be worn - directly on the skin. Now, having daubed CK One and Aqua di Gio on my wrists, I insisted you could tell a perfume's lasting quality and true nature only after a few minutes, during which I tested the Gucci Guilty and Versace on the back of my hands. My son suggested Issey Miyake for me and Ed Hardy for himself, which I sprayed into the crease of my elbows. For Boss and Bvlgari, I chose the mid-arms, though it was getting tough to remember which spot held which fragrance.
 

Having run out of arms, the squirts soon shifted to nape, neck, chin and cheek, and though I'd made sure to use the testers sparingly, I suspect I smelled intensely of too much perfume. While that deadened any sense of smell so I could no longer tell the pour hommes apart, from the way people looked away as I walked into McCafe with my tray, it was apparent that their olfactory faculties were under attack from me. But I had more immediate concerns, such as my coffee tasting of - nothing. "I'd like it stronger," I complained, and though the attendant at the counter appeared reluctant, she offered to exchange it for a freshly brewed cup. At the table, I persisted that while it seemed darker, it tasted, as before, of naught. "It's rich all right," confirmed my son, taking a sip, so clearly my inability to smell now extended to beverages, and perhaps food, which in turn seemed to have impaired my ability to taste.

"Great melon," gushed my wife, having stepped out to pick up a bowl of cut fruit, but for me it might as well have been raw pumpkin. "Yummy egg muffins," exclaimed my daughter, but they tasted like blotting paper. The noodle soup for lunch was no better than chewing on wet wool. "Would you like some bread?" the waitress asked. "Only if it doesn't taste like sponge," I responded, scaring her away till it was time to pay the bill. In the evening, when I still couldn't taste my whisky, I wondered if the damage was permanent.

By next morning, when I could tell the flavours of my muesli, I knew I'd been cured, but back in Delhi, it was my son who came down with the malady. Having foolishly experimented with what might impress the ladies in the office, his perfumed presence wafted up before he materialised to crib that the cooking seemed to have deteriorated in our absence, tasting to him little better than ashes. It was dejà-vu, only better, since this time the affliction was someone else's, to be borne with fortitude.