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Bernard
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Bernard
3
I wish I were...
...a wealthy London gentleman during the heyday of the Empire, occupied only with polishing myself on a sunny warm autumn afternoon for the evening at the club. The salon of the court perfumer Geo F. Trumper on Curzon Street would be my first choice and sole destination of my dreamy wanderings. The cozy atmosphere of fine woods, exotic carpets, elegant and clean scents, framed by hunting motifs on the paneled walls and a delightful assortment behind heavy leaded glass panes welcomes me as graciously as the perfectly polite servant spirit behind the counter. All of this is a uniquely tranquil oasis of calm and restraint in the bubbling, stinking metropolis of the Victorian Empire. Everything muted in the refined, understated light of the stylish dim lamps. This is Mayfair and not Piccadilly or Soho or even the Harbour district or possibly the East End. God forbid!
Trump's lavender water soothes, it relaxes and smells like... yes, like... like lavender. And how! For minutes, nothing else. Calm yourself. It tells me. Very calmly! And then, very gently, it becomes a bit sweeter and fruitier. Fresher even - berry, perhaps? No, no, it was... the coumarin. Or the citrus oils? Fresh all around. Wait, what is that now? Rosemary, that is clearly and distinctly rosemary. Perhaps a bit herby and spicy green, but still fresh, the heart of this water from the house of Trumper emerges after an hour, and then it is back: the lavender. Was it even gone? Before it gently fades after maybe three or four hours, becoming only faintly and fainter perceptible. Perhaps still on the starched collar.
Lavender water is old-fashioned, fine, discreet, gentle, floral, and can be so elegant in its disarming simplicity. Just like the much-described Victorian gentleman, who has as much in common with me as Jürgen Klopp has with Ottmar Hitzfeld. God knows how I came to think of these two now. I don't like Borussia Dortmund at all. But I do like Trumper's lavender water very much. Not quite as much as the legendary Eucris, but that's a whole different story.
Trump's lavender water soothes, it relaxes and smells like... yes, like... like lavender. And how! For minutes, nothing else. Calm yourself. It tells me. Very calmly! And then, very gently, it becomes a bit sweeter and fruitier. Fresher even - berry, perhaps? No, no, it was... the coumarin. Or the citrus oils? Fresh all around. Wait, what is that now? Rosemary, that is clearly and distinctly rosemary. Perhaps a bit herby and spicy green, but still fresh, the heart of this water from the house of Trumper emerges after an hour, and then it is back: the lavender. Was it even gone? Before it gently fades after maybe three or four hours, becoming only faintly and fainter perceptible. Perhaps still on the starched collar.
Lavender water is old-fashioned, fine, discreet, gentle, floral, and can be so elegant in its disarming simplicity. Just like the much-described Victorian gentleman, who has as much in common with me as Jürgen Klopp has with Ottmar Hitzfeld. God knows how I came to think of these two now. I don't like Borussia Dortmund at all. But I do like Trumper's lavender water very much. Not quite as much as the legendary Eucris, but that's a whole different story.
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Yatagan
