A package arrives in the mail. From the U.K. For me.
“Huh,” I think to myself. “I didn’t order anything from the U.K., and I don’t know anyone in the U.K. who would be sending me packages . . . I think?”
So I open the box . . . and gasp . . . you know, just a little. Because I’m surprised, not because I’m a drama queen or anything (Marin, shut up!).
The box is from Ormonde Jayne.
(insert sound of heavenly choir singing here)
Wait! Did I have one too many glasses of wine and hop on the internet (again)? I quick check my online bank account statement. Nope. No Ormonde Jayne charges. And yet, there the box sits in front of me, daring me to open it. Who am I to say no?
Puny human — you are powerless before my glory!
I almost can’t bring myself to touch it. What if it’s a dream? Or a mirage? What if I reach my hand towards the box and molecules shatter, atoms collide, the universe collapses in upon itself? What if . . . ooooooh, a handwritten card!
But it’s not an email or a text message. What do I *do* with it?!
“Dear Nathan,” it reads. Or, rather, I read. The card actually just sits there. Mute. Thanks for the help, pal. “Congratulations for your FiFi nomination –” and that’s all the encouragement I need. Attack! Attack! The wrappings will not hold! Resistance is futile!
Oh lord, did I just quote Star Trek?
Is there anything more beautiful than a surprise gift?
Jaw + Gravity = Serious Drop.
I recover after a moment of stunned disbelief, though not silence — there’s a faint whimpering sound, and since I’m the only one in the room, it’s likely coming from me. I carefully wipe the drool from my chin and pry the box open. It has a very insistent magnetic closure that’s determined to deny me entrance, but I have my pride. Somewhere. In a storage locker. Haaaelp!
The box springs open to reveal . . .
Yes, when the surprise gift is one of your favorite perfumes!
The next five minutes are a little hazy — something about falling over in a faint, the BF running into the room, smelling salts, some are you okays, yada yada yada unhand me peasant I have a bottle of gorgeousness to attend to!
I usually only say that about Johnny Walker Blue, but such is the power of Ormonde Jayne.
Move over, Picasso — the Jayne’s in town.
Chandler Burr wrote a review of Ormonde Man for his NYTimes blog. It was one of the few five star reviews he’s given, and Ormonde Man deserves the praise: “Ormonde Man … is spectacular. It disposes of the sharp glass edges and hard bathroom tile of the hygienic school to offer something unusual: masculine gentleness. I can’t imagine a scent more right for this rough time.”
Aw, shucks. Is he talking about little ol’ ME?
No really, it’s just too much. I couldn’t possibly — okay I have an acceptance speech all written. (pulls out crumpled piece of paper from pocket) *ahem* “Into every man’s life, there come trials (Marin) and tribulations (Marin again), but there are also the unexpected joys, like ‘Stranger Than Fiction‘, martinis with blue cheese stuffed olives, hardwood floors, crisp October mornings and Ormonde Jayne. So while I’d like to thank all the little people (you know who you are) who made me the gracious and humble genius I am today — you, in the back row, I heard that! — I’d like to especially thank the larger than life Ms. Pilkington for restoring my faith in the beauty of modern perfumery.” (stuffs crumpled piece of paper back in pocket)
Nice, right? You think? It’s not too over the top, or kiss a**? Cuz I could just, like, totally ditch thanking the little people at all . . .
It’s obviously more than ready for its close-up.
A huge crush of gratitude goes out to Ormonde Jayne (and especially Ms. Linda Pilkington). You totally made my day (week? fortnight? bi-annual charity drive?). And as for the rest of you — I now smell *so* much better than all y’all. You’re just going to have to deal with it.
***Note: the card from Linda Pilkington also reads, “I also love the photography on your page. Who does it?” *screams in horror* I just assumed that everyone would know that I take all the bottle/packaging/travel photos myself! Perhaps I need to be more direct and upfront about that . . .
UPDATE:
I just wanted to say that Ormonde Man, which was released in 2004, is notable for its early adoption of oud as a scent material. Yeah, sure, it’s 2009 and now you can’t swing Schrodinger’s cat without knocking a passel of oud releases off the shelves, but in 2004, Pilkington was ahead of the curve. And it smells like she uses a really nice oud, too — soft, smooth, even a bit sweeet. Not a whiff of that Le Labo “barnyard” oud or harsh Montale fumigation oud to be found.
