Smell is so important… when I was little I used to warm my dad’s slippers in front of the fire before he came home from work. He’d come in, bringing the smell of cold outside and engine oil from work and sit in his rocking chair…. I’d remove his shoes and then before putting his slippers on I used to sit and sniff his socked feet.
I know…I know…. it’s a little bit weird… and no I havn’t grown up to be a foot fetishist.
It’s the same with those we are fond of… those we love…. I love the smell of my children….and everyone loves the smell of babies heads (thats the noggins of babies, not steak puddings – though those smell good too).
I used to have a boyfriend who smelt of wild sage on a dry mediterranean hillside… it was pretty much all he had going for him as it turned out.
Jane used to smell lovely as John…. now…. she smells lovely mixed with your favourite aunt.
Somewhere I think I just like the smell of men… no…no..not heavy sweaty nasty smelly men on the tube at the end of a day…. but the clean smell of underlying testosterone… snuggling into someones armpit in the morning… or indeed the smell of relatively clean socks.
So anyway…. my man bear smells of lovely men things…. of cigar smoke and aftershave with underlying ‘man’.
(I’m not getting to fixated on this man thing am I – do let me know if I am)
We were lying in bed the other day -in post trifle contentment probably – when I found myself asking him for something strange.
He obliged -happened to have one handy on the bedroom floor even.
I sniffed it.
Took it home.
The next morning I lay in bed sniffing it (actually I was happily wearing it as a bandito moustache whilst greeting the morning – but that sounds even too strange to be one of my habits…. and a habit is something one does regulary…right?)
At this point if anyone wants to point out a father figure thing going on…. or moustache envy…or any other sort of mental instability I suggest you come round and look at my house as the bear tells me it screams madness in several languages. But I forgive him becuase his socks smell so damned good.
But today I am sad – I appear to have lost said sock…. it wasn’t powerful enough to be making its way homewards to Nantwich but I suspect it may have ended up lying around just looking like a dirty sock and it could well be that Jane has washed it.
I may have to go out and hunt down someone who smokes cigars to stand behind them quietly a while and smile happily to myself instead.
Or ring up the man bear and ask him to send the other one of the pair.