Slow burn.

Another intense work week, and my day-by-day perfume selections reflect the intensifying heat. To hell with merciful flowers and forgiving spices: I've moved on to forest fires and resins on the roast.

Today's choice, the pine smoke/burnt apple wonderfume Wazamba, clings tenaciously to my hair after twelve hours. Tomorrow I'll walk into work liberally cloaked in Hindu Kush-- a fearsome wall of incense to drive back mine enemies. And if that doesn't smoke 'em out, I'll unleash the atavistic terror, the Lambeg-drum-in-perfume-form that is Union Celtic Fire.

You wait and see. If I don't get burned as a witch by five o'clock on Friday -- or at least force a new no-fragrance-in-the-workplace policy to be submitted for the next commission vote -- it will not be my fault.