Several hours later I was standing over the boiling kettle, making a cup of tea for my parents, when I got a hit of the most incredible smell. I think now that the steam from the kettle must have realised the scent in all its complexity, and it suddenly brought to mind the smell of the cupboard beneath the stairs, a dark cellar where we stored a range of things including tramping packs, boots and parkas, through to old National Geographic magazines as well as the fermenting equipment for my father’s home brew and the strange concoctions of stout that exploded from time to time, leaving everything reeking of dark, malty beer. It was this combination of earthiness, cool stone and plaster, old carpet, hessian sacks, beer, wine, paper and the scent of campfires and bush held in our outdoor clothing that was now playing against my senses.

I poured the tea for my parents, then ran upstairs to the bath room, retrieved the perfume from the basket and took it to my room, where I hid it inside the stuffing of a small grey rabbit that was coming unstitched at the seams. I had made a real perfume discovery, oakmoss, and it was love.

Notes from a seventies bathroom: Veet, jasmine, rose, citrus, vanilla, oakmoss.

Of these notes oakmoss is the one I return to time and time again. Perfumes created from the citrus-orange bergamot, the resin gathered from the sticky flowering plant Cistus ladanifer, and oakmoss – a lichen that grows on oak trees – are referred to as chypres, and they are characterised by their complexity, their earthiness, their unwillingness to conform to stereotypes of femininity. They don’t bring flowers to mind; rather, they are skanky. Historically chypres tended to appear and gain popularity during periods following war or social or economic unrest. Mitsouko was developed in 1919, and although not the first chypre in production, it created a benchmark in perfume for modern, strong, independent women. A chypre built around oakmoss is probably what I need.

At the start of the seventies I began getting teased at school for being a Pom and talking funny. Despite being born in New Zealand, I had my father’s Mancunian accent, so words like ‘grass’ rhymed with ‘ass’ rather than ‘arse.’ In the playground classmates would circle me and call out words they wanted me to pronounce.

‘Say “pass”.’

To annoy them I’d reply, ‘Parse.’

‘Say “castle”.’

‘Carr-sel.’

‘Say “plant”.’

‘No, you say it!’

‘Say it or you’ll be sorry.’

‘Plarnt.’

‘How do you say “grass”?’ They would taunt me until I got so angry I’d yell, ‘Grass like you, ass’ and take a swing at them, at which point they’d yell, ‘Pommy, go home’ and run off.

‘I am home!’ I’d yell after them.

‘You’re a Pommy bastard!’

‘No I’m not!’

‘Yes you are! Pommy bastard!’