The smell I most remember is that of my mother’s hair removal cream, Veet. Only back then I think it may have gone by the far jauntier name, Veet-O. On first sniff, the thick, pale pink cream was similar to baby lotion: a powdery, lightly scented floral-musk that could be described as ‘non-offensive’. But whereas baby lotion maintained its sweetness or innocence, Veet turned nasty. Its smell gained momentum and expanded, filling not only the bathroom but the entire floor of the house. The sweet opening appeared to rot and turn sour, like vomit, and before long the notes used to disguise the hair-removing chemicals took on an unsanitary aspect reminiscent of the smell surrounding the old metal incinerator units that were placed in the school toilets for the disposal of tampons and pads. The scent of Veet brought to mind bodily functions. It was unclean, like the scum and hairs floating on the lukewarm surface every time it was finally my turn for the bath water.

At Christmas a few patients, their families, or the pharmacist near his Brighton practice used to present my father with gifts to pass on to my mother, usually things like soap, bath salts or talc sets. As far as I could tell, he was never given anything to keep for himself – perhaps that would have seemed too familiar, lacking in respect. Apart from the soap, these presents were rarely used but the sight of them in the basket under the sink convinced me that they were the perfect solution to my own problems of finding birthday and Christmas presents for my mother. I shopped for her at the local chemist. It was a short bike ride from home, part of the Shirley shops that then included a dairy, a newsagent, a bicycle repair shop and a drapery cum school-uniform supplier. The shelves at the chemist had everything I could want: Potter and Moore talcum powder, Morny French Fern soap, Meadowsong deodorant, Holly Hobbie soap dishes and boxed sets of Lenthéric Tweed, Just Musk and Tramp perfumes.

The item that caught my eye, however, was packaged in the most exquisite shade of light turquoise, a colour that resembled blackbirds’ eggs. This pale blue-green immediately struck me as modern and fresh and despite having no idea what the product inside smelt like, I was sure I could imagine its scent based only on the colour of the outside. Experience had taught me that yellow smelt like lemons and honeysuckle, purple like musty violets or lavender, pink like roses and baby lotion, green like ferns and lily of the valley, and brown like coal tar or beer. It made sense, then, that this product, with its unique colour and unfamiliar name, had to smell exotic, tropical, like nothing I had encountered before. Fenjal. The soap came in a hard plastic shell that gave it an air of luxury. The bath crème was packaged in a turquoise bottle with square shoulders and a nipped in waist. The scent, as I recall, was a clean jasmine. The smell didn’t make me gag. It was pretty.