My sense of smell often fails me, except in extreme close up. This is sometimes a happy fact, but often one I regret. The scent of roses is too subtle for my nose. I miss the smell of food wafting gently in the air.
Strong perfumes, an aroma that has all but disappeared in the mist of political or nasal correctness, do not escape my notice. A walk through Bloomingdale’s offers very enlightening bouquets to my weary probiscus.
If scent is a sixth sense, my shot at being hyper-perceptive is exanimate.