Zerotonin

Moans from the bathroom.
"Shit, he's going to kill himself!"
Raoul storms through the smoky room into the bathroom. Dr. Gonzo, dressed only in a blazer and underwear, is lying in the bathtub, struggling with the shower curtain rod for the radio that is playing Jefferson Airplane's White Rabbit. The bathwater, already a bit old, exudes a stubborn smell: there's sweet alcohol in the water, citrus fruits floating on the surface, and the slightly human scent of the already marinated Dr. Gonzo.

Raoul knows: he has been nibbling on the datura.

"Rewind to that awesome part where the rabbit bites off its own head! Then I want you to throw that damn radio into the tub with me," Gonzo gasps.
"Damn, you're totally losing it," Raoul replies, having now taken the rod away from the dazed man and holding it at bay, "then you're dead as a doornail and I have to start explaining everything."
But Dr. Gonzo has a counterargument. He pulls out a razor-sharp gardenia and points it at Raoul. "Don't you dare make me use this!"
"Alright, man. Guess it's the only solution. I'll throw the radio at the peak of White Rabbit into the tub with you. What are friends for? Ready?"
Inhuman moaning.
But Raoul has a plan. Behind his back, he is also hiding white flowers. A whole bouquet. And a smoking figure.
"Ten. Nine. One hundred eleven. Forty-two. THREE!"

A loud bang, and everything flies at Gonzo's head. Thinking he is about to die, he writhes in the bathtub, where all the scents merge into a fabulous, psychedelic mass.
Fear and disgust fill the room. But what happens in Las Vegas, stays there.

The revelers dance joyfully in a circle, holding hands and cheering in the good spirit and fitting music. Masses of sweet wine are served in buckets and jugs, while the ladies swirl their garments. The food on the wooden tables has been prepared with noble spices, but has already cooled as everyone has moved on to drinking. In some corners of the room, resin is being smoked. Cheerful toasts are made - to life, to good times, to Dionysus and Aglaea.

Aglaea, whose name roughly translates to "glory" or "splendor" in German, is the youngest of the three Graces, the goddesses of charm in Greek mythology (the "Gratiae" in Roman).
She is the goddess of beauty, glory, shine, and splendor, overseeing and caring for all celebrations and dances.

The name could hardly be more fitting for the fragrance. It evokes festivities of days long past - a luscious sweet peach wine (a truly beautiful, authentically crafted peach note has been created here!) is poured, and masses of the finest food are consumed, seasoned with leaves and berries of myrtle. The ancient, cozy smokiness of a room that has been heated by a fireplace for decades, bowls of incense.
A fruity-spicy feast for the senses; full-bodied, but not overwhelming.

You can smell it from afar - the aromatic scent of lavender. You take a deep breath, open your eyes, and let your gaze wander over the endless purple sea. Bees buzz busily around you, and as you walk through the field, the warm, pleasant wind carries even more of this soothing scent to your nose. Cheerfully, you continue, your hands brushing against the occasional flower, along the small path through the field.
The path now leads you to a small bakery with its own beekeeping, whose facade is completely made of wood and gives a cozy, inviting impression.
You take a seat outside on a wooden bench, and the scent of blooming lavender in the midday sun blends with the sweet baking aroma from inside.
The owner warmly welcomes you and tells you that the honey she uses for baking and sweetening drinks comes from the bees that are so diligently working on the lavender. This is noticeably responsible for the aroma of this special honey. In some selected baked goods, the purple flowers are also directly incorporated.
You indulge in a thorough consultation and then decide on hot milk with the aforementioned honey and a piece of buttery salt caramel lavender cake.
You enjoy your break and realize that the spicy-aromatic lavender pairs excellently with sweetness.
You take another deep breath and then relaxedly make your way back through the purple sea, with the taste of salted caramel in your mouth.

Brilliantly British is a lavender scent through and through, but not in the typical cologne way. It starts with lovely lavender, almost as a soliflore, and from the heart note, it blends with creamy-sweet caramel plus musk; a slight salty note, reminiscent of 'Salt Caramel' by Shay & Blue, is also perceptible. And as the lavender gradually recedes, the scent concludes as a gourmand treat. That's it - sometimes it can be that simple.
If it weren't for the salted caramel note, I wouldn't really see the connection to 'British.' I associate lavender more with Provence. However, the quirky bottle has won me over - I think the design is great!

"They're quite tame and cuddly," they said.
"A mild civet scent," they said.
I read along. Wanted to be brave. Sprayed it on my arm.

And froze.

"This will get better!" I reassured myself. Like on a date or an important meeting, when you realize how your irritable bowel is cheerfully knocking.
Just think it away.
Meditate.
Focus on your breathing.
And yet you secretly know that none of this will help. The inevitable is drawing closer.

The inevitable in this scent test was the realization that I know this smell damn well and no pleasant thoughts or fantasies could help me get over this memory.

Dumpling.

My recently ill guinea pig boar, who was not very mobile due to a swollen joint and, to make matters worse, did not tolerate the medication for the inflammation well. It ended up with him constantly sitting in the spot where he had peed and left messy droppings. Guinea pigs usually clean themselves very well like all animals, but here some human help was needed. The veterinarian instructed me to regularly clean the intimate area.
Not a full bath, that's not good for the piggies.
But washing.
So every day I cleaned with a warm, damp cloth. And this odor that unfolds as soon as warm water hits the diarrhea- and pee-soaked fur in the intimate area of a sick animal cannot be described with words.
"Civet" is like having distilled the cloth after the work is done.
There is nothing else - there is no wood to describe, no spice, I don't smell leather either. Just this heavy time.
I held out for 16 minutes. My arm is now very red, but I'm feeling better again.
Dumpling, by the way, is doing well too.

Imagine opening the wooden door of your mountain cabin early in the morning, where you are enjoying solitude this summer week. The birds are chirping, butterflies are fluttering about. Barefoot, you step onto the grass still damp with dew, the sun already shining quite brightly in your face. With your eyes closed, you savor nature, its sounds and scents. Fresh air, grass, alpine violets, hawthorn, wood.
You open your eyes and see before you the mountain lake, presenting itself in the most beautiful blue.
You make yourself a cup of green tea with a splash of lemon and sit down on the wooden chair in the shade. Next to you, the fresh laundry from the day before sways back and forth in the wind. With every breeze, the clean scent fills your nose, merging with the fresh, clear air. And as you gaze at the sky and enjoy your tea, you think you could stay here forever...

...unfortunately, the base then pulls me out of my daydream. As soon as the creamy flowers, the tea, and the fresh laundry fade away, the synthetic notes become borderline overwhelming. All I can smell is musk and a synthetic wood that can only be Timbersilk, even though it's listed in the top notes. No trace of patchouli or sandalwood. I feel a strong urge to spray again and be back at the mountain lake. Again and again... I find myself in a vicious circle!