As a 12-year-old I dabbed waxy green apple solid perfume on my thin wrists; at 14 I was mesmerised by Chloe; and at 17 Cacharel’s Anais Anais followed me out the door as I went to university. But the height of sophistication for me, during those teenage years, was my mother’s Weil de Weil. It still takes me back to being kissed goodbye in the mornings by my mother, emerging from a cloud of Elnett in a work suit with her hair up in a chignon and tired but loving eyes, leaving behind a wisp of green, languid, hypnotically floral Weil de Weil. I was magicked into enchanted woods before setting off for school each day. My beautiful mother has endured—though she has lost her sense of smell, and her bottles stand like sad sentinels on her shelf—and so has my love of this exceptional perfume. 
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