Monthly Archives: June 2010

The Five Senses: Smell.

(Clockwise from left: La Lune by Dolce & Gabbana, Un Jardin Apres La Mousson by Hermes, Burberry Brit, Burberry London, Miss Dior by Christian Dior, Coco Mademoiselle by Chanel, Safari by Ralph Lauren, Paris by Yves Saint Laurent, Flora by Gucci and Joy by Jean Patou).

I love smells, I like that intoxicating, punching whiff of fresh bread, the cleaness of freshly cut grass. I don’t very much enjoy the smell that comes from those whom don’t employ proper hygiene practices, but I doubt many are a fan of that particular musk. One of my favourite scents is Johnson & Johnson Baby Talc. It is so simple and pure, nothing fancy but something more than comforting. I think my love of nasal sensory overload has led me to be a fragrance whore as such. It’s not that I don’t believe in signature scents (indeed, my Mum has worn Jaipur by Boucheron for as long as my nose remembers), I just like to character-fragrance – matching my fragrance to my personality. And I like the memories each bottle evokes whenever I pick it up to spray.

For example, I have worn Burberry London religiously since its release 2006. It is a simple extension of my everyday persona and has pretty much taken over as my natural body fragrance, whenever it is smelt by someone it tends to preface the statement, “It smells like you!”.

Paris by YSL was the first perfume my Mum ever purchased me. I smelt it when I was about 7 and I couldn’t get the heady scent out of my head and pestered until I had my very own. Interestingly, Paris was also when of the first fragrances that my Mum was bought but she never wore it as she believed it smelt like “cat piss” on her skin. Charmer. This is why I have never bought another perfume. It’s more personal than underwear to me.

On more serious days, like those where I know confrontation is imminent and I’m in the mood for ball-crushing I have been known to run off with a few spritzes of my Dads scent, Eau Savage by Christian Dior. Mens scents are far more comforting than most womens, and are really more unisex than anything. My future husband MUST smell of Terre d’Hermes. Must.

Two of my most treasured fragrance memories come from my two grandmothers. Miss Dior by Christian Dior has been worn every single day by my Nan since she was first gifted with it by a Japanese business man in the 1950’s, I have never known her to smell of anything else (expect for mulch, grass and crushed rose petals as she is an avid gardener). This is the Lammin womens fragrance as it is also worn by my Mother, my Aunt and now, myself. I never wear it during the day though, unlike my Nan I reserve it for those nights where I find myself holed in the recess of a dark chocolate leather couch with a drink and mystery. Strangely enough, not one of us likes Miss Dior Cherie (it does smell like sugar-coated cat pee).

My other Grandmother has worn Joy by Jean Patou for as long as my nose remembers, and much like others with a signature scent, I connect the aroma to a person before I connect it to its name. I now too own a small bottle of Joy, but this is worth far more than the glass bottles that adorn her dresser. For my birthday, she presented by with a hand-turned wooden perfume bottle containing a vial of Joy. Not only is the mix of wood and scent perhaps the most comforting, beautiful reminder of a million childhood visits to her house for afternoon tea, but the wood is a remnant of my Dads childhood as she had sourced it from his childhood home in Port Morseby, Papua New Guinea. Now every other female in the Webb family wants their own, but they really should have been the first born for such high honours.

The Five Senses have an importance beyond any childrens rhyme, and the power of smell especially has an ability to take me where little else can. It can take me back to the patch of long-grass outside the bottle shop in Beecroft, it can take me to the crystal-still night looking out over Victoria Harbour and it finds me here, today with the subtle hint of Stella in Two: Peony.

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M is for Mini: My love of everything in miniature is well documented and my need for a mini-pig is perhaps the only thing some people could recall about me. But I quite enjoy miniature food stuffs (like mini vegie burgers, mini MnM’s and mini cans of Diet Coke) as well as miniature animals – I cannot wait to meet the mini cows my boss just purchased to go with her miniature ponies. I have a friend Joe who is convinced some things are best bigger, but he is a fool.

N is for Nothing: Also, as previously documented, I am a fan of Nothing. This filters from complete indifference to the most petty, confusingly involved ‘things’ to a love of blank canvas, plain white paper, empty boxes, metres of starch white linen.

O is for Optics: I do all my talking with my eyes, after all they are the window to the soul. They are by far a humans most intimate body feature, they have an ability to unmask even the deepest of lies within a person. I find them just beautiful.

P is for Party: Nothing beats a killer party. An atmosphere ripe with drinking, dancing and delinquency, tunes for tripping the light fantasic (by yourself or with a partner). My favourite party memories have always included balconies, late night trips to a convenience store, butterfly kisses and off-key singing. Whether it be 6 or 60 people, nothing can be as enjoyable as letting your hair down surrounded in a party air of possibility.

R is for Romance: Love aside, romance is a very agreeable past-time. A wanton love affair, a clandestine courtship, a vampy night on the town, a long distance chase, a night of amorous intrigue, a dreamy, stardust lust. Romance to me is about being able to see the end, but too enjoy the ride. As I am a great believer that nothing lasts forever, a string of capsule romances is enough to keep me blissfully connected to feelings of something ‘bigger’.

S is for Skulls: Damien Hirst once covered a skull in diamonds, the piece was entitled ‘For The Love of God’ it is truly beautiful. They all are beautiful, skulls have a morbid beauty that not many disintegrating body parts are able to maintain. There is something so alluring to me about the empty, stained shell that once contained all a human ever needed to get by in the world – their brain. It explains most perfectly, the fragility of the human body.

T is for Thesaurus: I’m a word geek and when it comes essay time the first book I pull of my shelf is my tattered thesaurus. I find intelligence such an important and underrated human trait, I’m continually striving to expand my vocabulary.

U is Underwear: I have a compulsive underwear buying obsession. I must wear matching sets, and I would very much like a neoprene pink pair from Agent Provocateur but I am not willing to send my little sister into a store in London for such important purchases. My favourite pairs come from Simone Perele and Sass & Bide as both make bras for tiny boobed women. I don’t only wear fancy shit, I like those plain nude Bonds ones too – the sets just have to match dammit.

V is for Vegetarian: I’ve been vego for a number of years now and I don’t honestly see it changing at any point in the future. I find myself better fed, in better condition and embracing food once again. When I ate meat, I had grown to hate the ritual of eating – but now I eat what I want and I experiment more, I’m back to eating a similar quantity of food to a first grade rugby team.

W is for Winter: I’m nuts about Winter. I have to be really, my parents moved to the upper Blue Mountains whilst I was living in Rose Bay with the full knowledge that shoes would eventually win out over rent and I would move back in with them. Bastards. But winter means big blankety jackets, warming bowls of lentil soup, ski weekends, turning the central heating up to 28 when my Dad isn’t home, ugh boots and bamboo knitted tights. And staying in my PJs all day. And making snow angels at any given opportunity.

X is for Xenodocheionology: Yup, figure that one out.

Y is for Yelling: Not the most ladylike of past times but I do enjoy myself a good yell. This has petered in excessive use of my car horn, the term ‘WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOO!’ and general amusing loud statements. Bear in mind, it is all in good humour. I never yell when angry.

Z is for Zambomba, Zambra, Zari, Zazzy, Zegadine, Zel, Zeme, Zibeline, Zingaro and Zippora.

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Dear Victoria, Stephanie, Dillon, Joshua, Matthew and Kimberley,

Thank you for celebrating my 22nd birthday. It was just the way I wanted, my closest friends and lots of cakes and treats and shit. I really liked going for that late afternoon walk and spending that hour frozen on a swing set trying to reach the very top of the frame. I liked the matching outfits worn by J and D. Classy boys. Matt, I’m less sure about your green flanny (I know it’s Ksubi, I don’t care – it’s green and they are dove killers).

I think that knowing in my mind my 22nd birthday will be remembered as the event everyone sat round my dinner table ‘fisting’ themselves however – that’s a special memory. So thank you everyone. Especially Steph for instigating the afternoon activities.

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This is ridiculous, so ridiculous it has overridden all desire to study for my take-home exam.

Go to urban​dicti​onary​.com and type in your answe​r to each quest​ion in the searc​h box, then write​ the FIRST (pffft, flexible with this one) defin​ition​ it gives​ you.

1.) Your name? Charlotte.

The most beautiful girl i have ever seen , and no way a slag, a smoker, or a bitch. She’s kind, thoughtful, and one of the best friends anyone could ask for!!

Truth, truth and more truth. I continually find myself telling a certain BFF that she is slaggier than I. This cements it. P.S. I’m gonna fix up the appalling grammar in these definitions.

2.) Your age? Ageless.

Yet to be defined, so I’ll do it. I simply go beyond such small, particular parameters such as ‘age’. Uh-huh.

3.) One of your friends? Kimberley.

A name given to women who have too much Booty to handle.

Her mammary glands are famous, I’m yet to have noticed any booty. She is too thin for booty now.

4.) Favor​ite color​? Gold.

The $300,000 Mr. T wears around his neck every day.

Truth.

5.) Birth​place​? Darlinghurst, Sydney.

The highest degree of absolute bad ass and/or righteous-ness.

Another lack of definition so I had to define Sydney. But, they are linked you see because Darlinghurst is home to drug addicts and prostitutes. Oh, and Darlinghurst Rd. where many a stripper shop lay. Bless.

6.) Month​ of your birth​day? May.

A month when hot sexy Taurus’s are born.

I am a hot, sexy Taurus it seems.

7.) Last perso​n you talke​d to? Mum.

A word which dickhead americans can’t spell, and claim we spell wrong – despite the fact that WE invented the language, and the idiots WE sent to america couldn’t spell.

Ahhhhaaaaa, British.

8.) One of your nickn​ames? I go by two, Lotte and Charlie.

Lotte – German nickname for Charlotte. Often can be seen doing matrix manuvers. Beware of Lottes. she can make a great friend but if you are a guy you will fall in love with her and she will break your heart.

Charlie – The beloved unicorn who goes to candy mountain and gets his kidney stolen.

I hope my kidney never gets stolen. Maybe I should stop bustin’ ballz.

9.) Last ex? T.

1. The baddest dude on the planet, after Wesley Snipes. 2. A boy who starts off as the guy of your dreams but then turns into a verbally abusive jerk who only cares about getting laid and only wants an arm candy.

Wesley Snipes and T are very different kinds of bad, for starters, people like Wesley Snipes. And as a matter of defense, he was never the guy of my dreams (that belongs to JTT) but he was indeed a jerk.

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