I love the smell of mown grass.
I love the smell of ironing. I love the smell of freshly washed towels and sheets.
I love the smell of babies.
I love the smell of lavender and peppermint tea.
And I love the smell of bin bags.
It's not that I want to go bottling eau de garbage bag or anything like that, but there is something quite pleasant about the newly unfurled bag, freshly lining the bin, its little edges folded over the top like the petals of a new and exotic blossom. It's enough to make you want to linger over the rubbish a bit longer.
I add its newfound olfactory charms to my list of all time favourite smells after a lengthy period of wonder.
I realise now that it was about the time single-use bags came in and I started purchasing rolls of bags for the bins (the idea of paying for plastic bags to throw away is a whole other nonsensical idea and sufficient fodder for its own column), that I started to enjoy the smell of the study. Come to think of it, the sewing room, the bathroom and various other small spaces started to have me sniffing for a while as well.
But it was the study I noticed in particular, probably because it is that space where I spend a good amount of time and much pondering goes on in that room.
I would go in, sit at the desk and cast about for that delicious yet subtle smell that newly assailed my senses. Was there a new plant outside the window? Had I left the lid off my hand lotion? Had I spilt something exotic on the carpet?
Or was this just a sharp and pleasant memory which enlivened the senses while I mused and mulled and modified meticulously?
I was stumped for the answer.
I can't recall the moment of revelation. Perhaps I picked up something and my nose brushed the little wicker bin under my desk? Perhaps I had to bring the roll of bags close to my face to uncurl the next liner. Perhaps, perhaps.
But the result remains. I have found the silver lining to the purchase of the orange/lemon/lavender linings for my household's little bins. I have sniffed out the answer to this mystery. And the discovery has come up roses.
- Linda Muller
