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Notes04/29/2020
Pollita
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Pollita
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44
The contaminated riding hall
I first got my first taste of Joop Homme at the tender age of 16. And I thought he was really good at first. He was cute, okay, but in a reasonable dose he could be really pleasant with his vanilla-woody tones. An equally young guy wore this fragrance, very discreetly dosed and of course only for going out in the evening. I liked it (the scent, the intimidated boy sometime no longer). Sweet, cuddly, cuddly. A good fragrance from the house of Joop, just like Nuit d'Eté and Berlin, which I had on my wish list at the time.
For many years, I consciously did not come across a wearer of this scent, until - it must have been 2003 or 2004 - I had to move into a new stable with my then riding participation horse. There was a riding instructor there who bathed in Joop Homme. Such olfactory combatants, which were revealed to me there during my sporting leisure activities, were unknown to me until then. And that of a student with five semesters of chemistry on her back. And believe me, not everything smells of violets - not to mention the strong silage of some cooking experiments in the laboratory.
But nothing else could compete with these olfactory grenades. The man, an elderly gentleman who had already passed the age of 60, entered the riding hall and within seconds it was contaminated. Normally I was used to riding instructors who always managed to get their eleves on horseback to concentrate with a Bundeswehr-like loud organ. With Mr. P., on the other hand, there were olfactory drones. And we are talking about an indoor riding hall, 20 x 40 meters. There p* and k* horses in it, it actually smells like a stable, like a horse, and on top of that they smoked in riding halls at that time, and not too close. All these smells had no chance against Joop Homme of Mr. P. Even when he gave lessons on the outdoor riding arena, we still felt the need to air out. Beaten to death with a heliotrope slingshot. Shouted at by jasmine and cinnamon, who constantly fought each other and especially the vanilla was not the best friend in this always exhausting environment of the farm. Tonka couldn't save anything and Patchouli sank into the olfactory stable-all.
I never processed that! When I smell this smell today, I want to run away. Far, far away. Preferably at a striding gallop. Giddyup!
For many years, I consciously did not come across a wearer of this scent, until - it must have been 2003 or 2004 - I had to move into a new stable with my then riding participation horse. There was a riding instructor there who bathed in Joop Homme. Such olfactory combatants, which were revealed to me there during my sporting leisure activities, were unknown to me until then. And that of a student with five semesters of chemistry on her back. And believe me, not everything smells of violets - not to mention the strong silage of some cooking experiments in the laboratory.
But nothing else could compete with these olfactory grenades. The man, an elderly gentleman who had already passed the age of 60, entered the riding hall and within seconds it was contaminated. Normally I was used to riding instructors who always managed to get their eleves on horseback to concentrate with a Bundeswehr-like loud organ. With Mr. P., on the other hand, there were olfactory drones. And we are talking about an indoor riding hall, 20 x 40 meters. There p* and k* horses in it, it actually smells like a stable, like a horse, and on top of that they smoked in riding halls at that time, and not too close. All these smells had no chance against Joop Homme of Mr. P. Even when he gave lessons on the outdoor riding arena, we still felt the need to air out. Beaten to death with a heliotrope slingshot. Shouted at by jasmine and cinnamon, who constantly fought each other and especially the vanilla was not the best friend in this always exhausting environment of the farm. Tonka couldn't save anything and Patchouli sank into the olfactory stable-all.
I never processed that! When I smell this smell today, I want to run away. Far, far away. Preferably at a striding gallop. Giddyup!
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