Coming to my Scentses

Sitting here in the half-light of a Sunday evening, I feel at home. Even if I had my eyes closed, I would know I am here. I would be able to feel the sofa that seems to recognise me as I lean back into it, and the softness of the purple velvet throw we have over it. I would be able to hear the little noises of our flat, the odd train running past, the churning of the washing machine, and know.

Most of all though, it is the scents of the evening that tell me I am home. In the bedroom, I have a small bud vase filled with sol narcissi, and the merry little bunch perfumes the whole room. Here in the living room are a jug of lemon-curd-creamy daffodils, whose scent just whipsers 'February' to me, gently. I can smell the Battenburg cake that I baked earlier, cooling in the kitchen, awaiting its robe of apricot jam and marzipan. I can smell my perfume, warm from my skin, and smell the candle that has just burnt itself out, the wick smoldering. It smells of heat and always reminds me of church. If I breathe hard and concentrate, then I can just about smell the lingering steam of a bath from earlier, fragrant with hyacinth scented soap roses.

Home...the best place to be.

I feel contented this evening. I want to read some more of my book, and some more of Myrtle Reed's writings online. I want to knit some more on my lacy bedjacket, and if there is time, paint my nails bright red to make me smile in the morning. I have a lot to smile about today. Yes I still have my work worries and the rest of it, but I am so lucky to open my blog and find such kind words from lovely people. Even when I sit, just me and my laptop, I am not alone, because of all of you. What a gift! Thank you, every one!