The Parosmia Diaries

This Friday, 27th February is Anosmia Awareness Day.  Ordinarily, this is a date that would probably have passed without too much comment at Lippie Mansions, but this year is different. Very different.   Most people think not being able to smell is just a little thing, but please let me tell you that it is not. When I lost my sense of smell last year, I had literally no idea just how devastating a condition it would be, and just how much my life would be changed as a result of the cold that caused my olfactory nerve to die.  I've had to give up reviewing perfumes, and beauty blogging has had to take a bit of a back seat to learning to deal with my condition. There are so many things I can't eat, there are activities I simply can't do, for example, I can't go to a coffee shop, I can't stand near someone who has been smoking.  I've had to avoid eating out. I can't drink wine, I can't just go to a sandwich shop and pick something up for lunc

Allegedly, I fart.   Only very occasionally, and obviously it is only ever the very merest toot that smells (faintly) of sunshine, lollipops and violets.   I had it checked. Most of the time, it is easy to discern that a little … um … gas needs to pass, and we can make arrangements to do what comes naturally in a manner that neither disturbs nor offends our fellow companions.   But there’s one situation that anosmics/parosmics/dysosmics fear above all others: The Unexpected Trump. We all know the ones, you’re taken unawares and, almost before you’ve even registered that you have to … go … it has already gone .   Gone out into the ether, potentially polluting your immediate atmosphere with methane, sulphur and all the other ingredients that combine to make that particularly unmistakeable aroma. But, imagine that’s happened in the office – and this has, of course, NEVER HAPPENED – and you have no way of knowing how bad (or not) what you’ve just unleashed actually smells.