‘In the late 80s I painted a hard-boiled egg for an Easter art project at school, and foolishly decided to transport it home in the front pouch of my fluorescent ski jacket. On the way home I stopped off at a friend’s house to play one of our favourite games – hurling ourselves the bannister of his parents’ staircase and landing on a mattress placed in the hallway below. I didn’t think twice about the egg until a week later when the putrefied stench of its mashed contents filled my wardrobe. Even after washing the eggy smell lingered, the solution to which my mother reasoned was a liberal spritz of YSL Rive Gauche. To this day I cannot smell that fragrance without gagging!’