Apple Blossoms. It is now Spring.

I'm going to do something I never thought I'd do: my collection of fragrance is going away. I don't know how they are going, but I need to write a list of them.

I have two scents now.

• Tom Ford Neroli Portofino, oil and something called body spray. So this is my brief affair; it's going to be warm kind of sunshine sexy, smelling like oranges. I bought the spray last weekend when I was furious with Senor Leiderhosen.
• I Hate Perfume Russian Tea Caravan I have a 5 ml liter bottle inside another little plastic capped bottle from The Container Store, ninety-nine cents. Wouldn't have it any other way. So sexy and intentional. Enough to last me a while. I put it on the tattoo of my Mum's signature; she hated perfume. How our noses ran in church when little white eldery Ladies  wore hats. It's warm. When my nose is full of it, I feel it right here. Here. Where my breastplate armour  would lean towards Heaven on the prayer cards of me.

It's a Dark and Stormy nighty and I'm alone. With two cats. And six laying hens. Finoula Lou, Bubbah, TifFAnI, "Marjorie!", Cloud of the Fluffy Pants, Mary-Kate&Ashley, and -in the most Carol Channing style- Sally Corona.

It's been five eggs a day. Six, twice. So I just put on galoshes, a coat, and with my yellow flashlight I had to check they were snug and tucked in.

I am lucky.