Smells Like Teen Angst

Science boffins have spent years trying to work out why the most evocative of all the senses is smell. And if you’re looking for an answer here you’ve come to the wrong place. But I was reminded of just how strongly scent and memories are linked yesterday when I was meandering down the washing powder aisle of Tesco, behind an old man who was wearing beige slacks and a Marks and Spencer sports jacket, and was suddenly overwhelmed by passion and feelings of hormonal angst. Not because I have a thing for old men in M&S jackets, or washing powder for that matter, but because the elderly gent (and source of my racing heart) was wearing the aftershave of a boy I went out with as a teenager. On reflection, that either says that the boyfriend had a questionable taste in aftershave, or that the old dude had a young spirit. Judging by the slacks, I suspect it’s the former of the two. However, I was positively consumed by how strongly all those feelings of pubescent angst, desperate insecurity and awkward fumbly snogging sessions came back to me in a split second. It was almost like I was right back there, and it’s not often that I truly remember things so clearly. It’s easy to remember how things looked, sounded or tasted, but very difficult to remember feelings as time passes and memories get diluted by time.

Smell has a wonderful, almost magical capacity to transport us to another time and place. The smell of stale alcohol always takes me back to working in a bar, the smell wasn’t just in the bar but it would permeate my skin and follow me home. And whenever I smell that smell I am reminded not just of where I was and who with, but of how I felt; happy, excited and part of something really cool, then arriving home, swaying slightly, eating a massive boccadillo and trying to sleep when it was broad daylight.

Smells can invoke joy and comfort, or can jar you back to a time and place you would rather forget. There have been many studies done on how childhood memories are anchored in smell and even in my limited experience I can understand why. Thankfully, most of my smell memories are pleasant ones. Mum (who now lives at my Nana D’s house) gave Son One a sleeping bag, and even after washing it, it still smells of her house, to the extent that Son One said “I love my sleeping bag, it smells like Nana”. It’s Max Factor make up and old school lemon bathroom cleaner, the smell of my Nana D and now my mum, is a very comforting one and when I smell it, I drink it in and revel in its soothing effect. Mum’s perfume (Alliage) always reminds me of the excitement of staying up late with my grandparents because she would save it “for best” and only wear it when she was going out with my dad. And the smell of Dad just home from work; fags, day old polycotton shirts, those old blazers (that looked like they were made out of Shreddies and had leather elbow patches) and car interior reminds me of feeling small and safe in his arms.

But of all the most wonderful, most comforting and beautiful smells there is, there is one that completely overtakes all others. And that is the sweet, damp smell of my sleeping sons. They say boys smell (and they would be right), boys are gross but, to me, my boys smell delicious (even though they are gross). And I hope that that smell stays with me forever.

Looking at a picture can remind you of a place you’ve been before, hearing a song you’ve listened to with someone, touching or tasting something, all have the power to invoke memories. But scent somehow has an almost apocalyptic strength, eradicating everything you are doing at that moment and taking your entire being back to where it was when you first experienced it.

Slowing to a stop behind the elderly gent pondering the distinctions between Persil and Ariel (you can ponder all you like Sir, you will never work it out), the initial feelings of passion began to subside and were replaced by the bone crushing heartache caused by the original object of my desire. And with that I narrowly avoided asking the old dude his name so I could rush home and write it on my pencil case.

A totally unrelated note…

Happy birthday to Son One, six today! Love you little man xxxx

It's Happening

I had a bit of a wake up call this weekend. The Dad came round on Friday night to help me and Mum with the Star Wars Party prep (yes I succumbed to the party monster and went all out with a Star Wars themed party and it was ace, what girl would not want to be Princess Leia for a day?), and we were all sitting around making masks, wrapping pass the parcel and sneaking sweets out of the piñata when One Direction popped up on the telly with their song “Live While We’re Young.” And whoops, out of nowhere I said “Oh pur-lease” I even shocked myself, I had no idea where this grumpy old woman came from, but it really grated that it sounded like they were saying that they didn’t think you can “Live While We’re Older”. One Direction are cool and young, just like me, aren’t they? Why do they irritate me so, why do I care? Then it dawned on me. I am getting older and therefore my tolerance for young people jumping around having a good time is weakening, I am no longer one of them.

I was noticeably shaken by this event and tried to put it behind me but I soon started seeing clues to my aging everywhere…

After nearly three hours of sitting on a hard floor cutting out 40 eye holes in Darth Maul masks, and hundreds of black shapes (for the kids to stick on) The Dad and I eventually stood up with a vast amount of creaking, groaning and seized back rubbing, then settled gingerly on the sofa with an “aaaaaaaahhh”. Sitting down with a sigh is another sign of aging, you don’t catch kids sitting down and going “aaaaah that’s good”. They launch themselves at a sofa (usually from a great height) and plop down in a tangle of gangly legs and arms. Not like us oldsters who sit down slowly so that nothing pops or jars. And come to think of it you never hear them say “Oooh I’m gasping for a cuppa” either. Kids might want a cup of tea, but they never convey quite the same urgency or need for it as us older folk.

When I was about 8 I remember my Great Auntie V refusing a cucumber stick at a family buffet, “Ooh I couldn’t, cucumber repeats on me” she said gravely, I had no idea what this meant, but it sounded serious. Then about two weeks later my Nana D said exactly the same thing, again of a cucumber stick. I still didn’t know what it meant but I was beginning to approach cucumber with some caution. I soon started hearing of things repeating on all sorts of people, my parents, aunts, uncles, their friends and now realise that things “repeating on you” is another sign of aging. A kebab on Saturday night “repeated on me” for some time afterwards, it was not a pleasant experience. Maybe that is why I have never seen my Great Auntie V tucking into a doner.

I have been looking for some new boots to wear on the school run (along with a coat – yes it’s that time of year again, but that’s a whole nother story), and I have become rather addicted to adding things to my watch list using the eBay app on my phone. I quickly realised that every single pair of boots I was watching was flat, boring and without any of the exciting, “trendy” features I would have looked for in footwear as a youngster. Because frankly, I no longer want to wear heels during the day (special occasions only), and I want my feet to be warm and dry and free of aches and pains (and capable of propelling me at speed if I need to chase after an errant child). Flat boots and a bright pink rain coat are an obvious mark of someone dressing for substance over style. But style can come with substance as I discovered yesterday. I was throwing out some clothes and got Mum to try on some jeans and was really pleased to see that a few pairs of jeggings fitted her nicely. She was very concerned that she would look muttony, having got used to the flowy clothing of a respectable older lady, but I think they look fab on her (as long as she doesn’t couple them with pointy shoes, sequins or anything neon) and after wearing them for a few minutes we realised that they also provided a nice bit of support for her knees, which is a pleasant bonus that I wholly empathise with, having recently succumbed to a knee injury after standing up from a kneeling position. You know you are getting old when just standing up poses a notable risk to joints.

I may have a while to go before I’m actually old, but all the signs are there that the process is well underway. And you’d think that I’d be depressed about it, but quite the contrary. Being of a certain age has some massive advantages that many people forget; always getting a seat on the bus, having young people help you with your shopping, being able to say absolutely anything to anyone and getting away with it, and my favourite, having perfectly straight, white teeth that you pop into a glass of water at night and will remain perfectly straight and white whatever you eat and drink, even if it repeats on you. Now that is what I call living.