I first smelled it in Harrods. I know, Harrods of all places. But it was one of those very rare, very beautiful days in London when I let go of all responsibility and tightness of chest with regard to spending and saving and went with Sah to Harrods. And bought make up. And sniffed and regaled my nose with dreams of grandeur. I left behind, for a day, how much I missed Dale and how desperately I adored Manor House and wanted a semblance of reality to seep in. But reality merely tickled at the edges, and even that day in Harrods, what was that? A total dream. But a good dream: and I was introduced to Lolita Lempicka.

And now she is here.

There was poetry again tonight, and though lately I've been feeling poetry'd out, I was glad to be there. It quickens my heart.
Loo came, from bookclub, and Mark from work and his wife. And although at the start I worried a little about what they would think about this motley bohemian bunch, I quickly relaxed.
My poems were well received again, and I had a comment on the new one.
And some time before the interval I looked up and saw a familiar face. The same short hair, the same pixie face. But older. So much older I thought to myself - six years, can that be all? - but I went up to her and introduced myself again, and we had a little chat, again after all this time.
Remember those first Thursdays at the Tropicana? The rainbow coloured nighttime when I used to go alone, walking from Hampton Road in those most sacred nights. My Freo nights under the flame trees.

And now the quiet of my bedroom: somehow messy again after just one day, but anna-fied and welcoming.
I'm going to bed with Stephen King (who'd have thought, eh?) and a spritz of Lempicka. Not Tamara. Lolita.

"...she held out her hands, bright with berries,
the first of the season, and said:
Make a wish Tom, make a wish..."