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Fragrance pyramid no matter or The stuff memories are made of
My daughter is the most cuddly creature on the planet. A cat video that has become a human being. A honey blonde, fuzzy little head, bristly like a porcupine. Anyone who manages to persuade my daughter to do something she does not want can just as easily solve the Israel-Palestine conflict.
If you look into their dark cornflower eyes, you will see cumulus clouds in iron mountain lakes, dancing butterflies and black storms passing by in fast motion.
My daughter is 'as bright as a christmas tree'. At the age of two, she was able to sing several stanzaic songs without error and speak long, complex sentences. Her first complete sentence to me was 'Go away' with your filthy paws!'
Simply golden.
When she was three years old, she got up in the morning and announced 'I NEVER go to kindergarten anymore' and I knew she was serious.
From then on, we did everything together. Since I worked freelance at home at that time, it went reasonably well. But what she liked best was shopping with me. She pushed the shopping trolley for me or wandered through the aisles to subject the lined up goods to a critical analysis, reminded me of what was "all" at home and what I had not cooked for a long time.
My daughter is a perception machine. She sees everything, she hears everything, she smells everything. So also on the day, when she summarized the smell of Hugo Boss Bottled with a sentence.
It must have been the fruit and vegetables in front, when this memory-soaked, somewhat strongly applied smell floated into my nose. I looked up and my gaze fell on a pretty attractive guy in a leather jacket who just tore the bundled leaves and stems of three kohlrabis with concentrated force. It was around half past eleven and its fragrance had already arrived in the warm spicy fragrant base note, dragging a little cinnamon and sport and fresh fruit behind it. But most of all, he carried the memories to me.
Memories of two-way, nocturnal shivering on park benches, mutual waiting for the start to be made, memories of exchanged mixed 'tapes', now burned on CD in a very modern way, holding hands in the back school yard, alibi-like sitting together on the well...only...desk chair in the teenager's room. First visits to the gym had paid off, as I secretly noticed, instead of looking at the proudly presented, endless albums of the self-photographed Mallorcan beaches. You had to be damn quiet in this youth room, which wasn't always easy in the presence of Boss Bottled...
Uh... Hold memories! Now this is good!
Didn't you ever notice that Hugo Boss Bottled fell out of almost every black EastPack backpack? That the bus driver, the political teacher, the girlfriend's brother and supposedly great love...all smelled the same? Wasn't he just a little boring after all? Charts up and down, hairstyle like everyone, sports like everyone, TV like everyone? The little big love became boring and in fact became a nice friendship at some point. It was still a nice time, a lovely memory.
I followed the fragrance trail for a while through the supermarket, indulging in the echo of a bright dark past, here with the cereals.
Suddenly a hectic hand fan tore me from my dreams. A golden, curly gorilla bunny with bloated nostrils, a raised upper lip and contracted eyebrows under black-blue eyes sparkled at me. With a rough voice, but clearly and clearly audible for all shoppers:
"Puuuuuuuuh mommy......it smells like Specified!"
If you look into their dark cornflower eyes, you will see cumulus clouds in iron mountain lakes, dancing butterflies and black storms passing by in fast motion.
My daughter is 'as bright as a christmas tree'. At the age of two, she was able to sing several stanzaic songs without error and speak long, complex sentences. Her first complete sentence to me was 'Go away' with your filthy paws!'
Simply golden.
When she was three years old, she got up in the morning and announced 'I NEVER go to kindergarten anymore' and I knew she was serious.
From then on, we did everything together. Since I worked freelance at home at that time, it went reasonably well. But what she liked best was shopping with me. She pushed the shopping trolley for me or wandered through the aisles to subject the lined up goods to a critical analysis, reminded me of what was "all" at home and what I had not cooked for a long time.
My daughter is a perception machine. She sees everything, she hears everything, she smells everything. So also on the day, when she summarized the smell of Hugo Boss Bottled with a sentence.
It must have been the fruit and vegetables in front, when this memory-soaked, somewhat strongly applied smell floated into my nose. I looked up and my gaze fell on a pretty attractive guy in a leather jacket who just tore the bundled leaves and stems of three kohlrabis with concentrated force. It was around half past eleven and its fragrance had already arrived in the warm spicy fragrant base note, dragging a little cinnamon and sport and fresh fruit behind it. But most of all, he carried the memories to me.
Memories of two-way, nocturnal shivering on park benches, mutual waiting for the start to be made, memories of exchanged mixed 'tapes', now burned on CD in a very modern way, holding hands in the back school yard, alibi-like sitting together on the well...only...desk chair in the teenager's room. First visits to the gym had paid off, as I secretly noticed, instead of looking at the proudly presented, endless albums of the self-photographed Mallorcan beaches. You had to be damn quiet in this youth room, which wasn't always easy in the presence of Boss Bottled...
Uh... Hold memories! Now this is good!
Didn't you ever notice that Hugo Boss Bottled fell out of almost every black EastPack backpack? That the bus driver, the political teacher, the girlfriend's brother and supposedly great love...all smelled the same? Wasn't he just a little boring after all? Charts up and down, hairstyle like everyone, sports like everyone, TV like everyone? The little big love became boring and in fact became a nice friendship at some point. It was still a nice time, a lovely memory.
I followed the fragrance trail for a while through the supermarket, indulging in the echo of a bright dark past, here with the cereals.
Suddenly a hectic hand fan tore me from my dreams. A golden, curly gorilla bunny with bloated nostrils, a raised upper lip and contracted eyebrows under black-blue eyes sparkled at me. With a rough voice, but clearly and clearly audible for all shoppers:
"Puuuuuuuuh mommy......it smells like Specified!"
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Edda32
