Mum’s perfume was Yardley Lilley of the Valley. Her dressing table always smelt of it. When the coalman a came, the smell of the coal shed permeated the house. Roast beef on a Sunday, the gas copper full of bubbling sheets on Mondays and my Dad’s garage smells: wood shavings, the glue pot, oil, rouge polish on the polishing motor mop plus the dominant smell of his latest hobby, he could turn his hand to anything.
Someone mentioned Parrish’s mixture, the vilest taste imaginable. I have no idea what it smelt like I used to hold my nose and close my eyes when reluctantly fed a spoonful by Mum. TCP, Gemaline and Eucryl toothpaste in a round tin.