Perfume blog newbies often comment that some of the regulars have a language of their own, and indeed we even have our own dirty words, the f- and s-bombs: “fruit” and “sweet”. I must admit to being among the contingent that usually gives a snobbish shiver of repulsion when I read a note list that includes grape, litchi or coconut. Unfortunately, sales assistants flogging candy cocktails are attracted to my chubby cheeks, decade-old sweatshirts and general lack of bearing. I notice this most often in big city, higher-end department stores: salespeople ignored by the older, impeccably groomed customers going by zero in on me as being the only person in the area who could conceivably be within the age range for their fragrance. Since I was a child, I've had a particular fear of situations in which somebody is giving an embarrassing or futile speech and I am obliged to stand there, smiling politely. I feel this fear as a pain in my chest, as heartburn, while I stand there with my frozen grin, waving around a testing strip or ribbon sprayed with something that is attracting flying insects.
On a day when it's sleeting, however, there is nothing more cheering to me than a big, euphoric burst of fruit…
Like many people who grew up in my part of the world, I come from Scottish stock (although my maternal grandmother was Native/Aboriginal Canadian, just to keep things interesting.) Besides a love of single malts, turnips and dishes based on organ meats, I have inherited that particular brand of stubborn crustiness made famous by the Scots. This is the time of year when I indulge in one of my family's favorite movies: 
Wearing your favorite chypre, you go into the Registry Office to renew your license and the attendant leans across the desk to confide: “I'm sorry — we need the ventilation system cleaned. I think something died in there.” Or you are standing at the bus stop, bathing in the warm glow of some animalic rarity — 
I am a night walker. Much to the dismay of family and friends, I have always loved tramping alone through the dark. Autumn has been my favorite season since I began school at four and few things have ever invigorated me like a solitary stroll on a gusty October night. Perfect fall days have a straightforward, blue-skied radiance about them that seems to call for something crisp and handsome — Leonard Pour Homme,