October 25, 2011 |
PRADA: You’re at your desk, clawing at the walls with boredom. It’s a Tuesday afternoon. The sun is shinning and people are sitting in Golden Square. You are jealous. The doorbell rings. Ouu ouu, what is it, you ask in a psychotic manner. It’s for you. From Prada. Finally, that moment of joy you’ve been praying for since 8.59 that morning has arrived. You open the bag. It’s a new whiff, so you spritz. “What’s that?” ask them downstairs. “Are you eating caramel? You’re only supposed to be eating meat this week. That’ll be £1 in the diet pot, please.” “It’s not food!” you cry. “I’ll have you know that this is more than just a fragrance and hence a contribution to the aforementioned jar shall not be made. What you smell, the gaseous molecules that are descending on your heads as I speak, is in fact the latest addition to feminism’s armoury. It’s smells like candy because it’s called Candy. Think of it as a Female Eunuch, but instead of being written in ink, it’s written in three fragrant notes. Caramel, sweet and joyful. Feminine. Laotian benzoin, sensual, and warm. A dark addictive sweetness. And a cocktail of musks that brings elegance and sophistication to the other notes. A trio of many layered notes to reflect every facet of the female personality. The whole concoction, the almost-overbearing sweetness demands a reaction. What do you mean you don’t get it? Think of it as the most angelic-looking girl you’ve ever seen. She’s sitting on a bench, minding her own business. You turn around and she pokes a stick in your back. Hard. You spin round, but there’s no one there. No stick. Just this angelic cherub. And then slowly she raises her eyes and there’s this glint and you know it was her, but you can’t do anything. That’s what this does. Keeps poking you in the back until you sit up and take notice. No one ever got anywhere by being meek. Once you have it, you can bend it to your will. And then you can take over the world. Finally. Maybe get an army of Prada-clad and scented clones. They’ll stand in lines, in squares, the world over, chanting in unison, ‘We want Candy! When do we want it? Now!’ You can bet you’re golden, pink stoppered bottle they’ll get it, too.”
by Natalie Dembinska
