‘The day my father died I went outside and sat in his car, and it smelt of him. I bawled my eyes out.’

‘My mother always sprayed too much perfume. I hated it. It made her smell like an old lady. I think it was called Youth Dew but us kids called it Youth Spew.’

‘I got married in Queensland and the gazebo was covered in frangipani. I only have to get a whiff of it and I’m back there, with my wife. Happiest day of my life.’

‘I love the smell of swimming pool water when it splashes onto hot concrete. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and spent summers at the local pool with my friends. I like bleach, too, when it dries on your skin.’

‘My dog eats poo. I hate it when he licks me afterwards, and I yell at him and my mum says we should get him put down. Dog poo is much worse than sheep poo, but pig shit is worse.’

‘My old woollen hunting jersey. One sniff and I’m like, out of here!’

Not long ago a man sidled up and asked if perfume could bring memory to life. I said I thought so, but in most cases it could only be an interpretation of an experience, rather than a literal depiction, so more like a painting than a photograph.

He said, ‘I want something that reminds me of the West Coast.’

‘The beach or the bush?’

‘Where the bush comes right down to the sea. I used to walk through the bush and push through a whole lot of flax. The beach was wild and littered with big pieces of driftwood, huge trunks washed down from the flooded rivers. Foam came off the breakers, and left wobbly marks along the tide. The air was humid and smelt salty, like the sea. It was hazy. I used to go there all the time with my brother. Can you make that?’

I nodded. ‘I can give it a go. Why do you want that scent?’

‘Because my brother’s dead and because it’s the smell of New Zealand, where I grew up.’

‘The smell of New Zealand?’

‘Yeah. That, two-stroke and beer.’

‘I spent most of my childhood at my grandparents’ house,’ I told him, ‘by the gasworks. We could make a New Zealand perfume based on beer and gas.’

He thought that was hilarious and then, growing serious, asked how much the New Zealand perfume would cost, adding, ‘Can you make it so I can smell it without having to wear it. I don’t want, you know, to wear perfume.’