I should not be allowed near a dab bottle without supervision. I currently have about £15 of Bois des Iles perfume down my cleavage. I don’t believe in saving perfumes for best, but this is ridiculous.

If I’d done this with Coromandel, I’d be gasping for oxygen. With Amouage Gold, I’d not have enough breath left to call for an ambulance. I’m rarely stingy with the spritzing–I’m generally of the “too much of a good thing is wonderful” persuasion–but even I find most fragrances unbearable at this dose.

Fortunately, Bois des Iles is quite sheer and politely close wearing. Despite escaping its leash, it’s still not a rampaging sillage monster eating all the air. Nor is it pulling me under to drown in sandalwood cream. Though sweeter than the Eau de Toilette, all that richness has been whipped into a shimmering golden aldehydic mousse. But even mousse is too much if you eat it by the kilo.

Before I accidentally immersed myself in oceans of scent, I had been planning to write about rewarding yourself with perfume, and about buying fragrance to mark events and anniversaries–because I bought this treasure as an “oh, I suppose I’m a grown up now” present when I met my half-century not out.

p.s. These are the before photos; there’s a lot more air in the bottle now.

originally posted 11 May 2019