If my thoughts could smell, they'd smell like cigarette smoke.

An odd thing about me that I don’t often admit to (either to myself or others) is that I am rather obsessed with smells.

Not just your usual ‘strawberry’ and ‘banana’ and perfumes and things like that, everyday smells that people will inhale often but not give a moment’s thought to.

These are the things that I notice that only one other person (my sister) seems to. In my (slightly addled) brain I have a comprehensive list of all these different scents, and the situations and feelings they cause me to remember.

The smell of rain on hot tarmac is probably one of the most delicious odors that exists, and yet no one realises they know this smell, until you ask them. This smell alone brings up faded memories of being caught in random, and at the time very irritating heavy summer showers. You know the type; glorious sunshine one minute, the very air feels thick and heavy, and the next, your white top has gone see-through and you’re having to remove your flip flops to try and shake the water out of them. Now that I am remembering this smell, I am thinking, for some reason, of the skate park I used to frequent with my friends, around the age of 15 (our sk8r grl phase, what a blast) and so I am led to believe this must have happened to me, here, once before. We used to sit underneath (what we believed to be) the ‘half pipe’ - I was later corrected; it was ‘the quarter pipe’. There’s a difference, people - and do the things that our mothers back at home worried we were doing, but could never prove….by this I mean giving tramps money to buy us very cheap, disgusting cider, which we would consume along with some bad quality, expensive marijuana. Sorry mum.

The second best smell is probably a little more well known and recognised - Unleaded Petrol. I’m not really sure what it is about this smell that is so intoxicating to me, but I always, without fail, open the car door at the petrol station and get a good ol’ lungful. I don’t drive, but I know that if I did, I would look forward considerably more to visits to the petrol station than the qualified drivers I know.

My next smell is probably one of the most varied you could get - and that, oh readers (who have probably been misdirected to this blog, I am sorry. ‘Who the fuck is this twat talking about smells?!’) is what I call a ‘Home Smell’. It is this intangible mix of so many contributing odors that seem to envelope a person you know. A guy I used to know had one of the best home smells ever - it was heady mix of whatever his mum used to wash his clothes, and a subtle top note of Lynx. (sounds like any other teenage boy you’d know, I’m sure, but to me, it was delicious.) The home smell I could probably recognise best though, is my ex boyfriend’s. (Brief history: we were together for 3 and a half years, from 16 to 19, we lived together for the last year) I saw him for the first time in over a year a half a few weeks ago, and as we had that customary ‘long time no see’ hug, I got a lungful of that lovely smell. By rights, he should have a new one by now, having moved out of his mothers, but if I know him as well as I thought I did, his mum probably still washes his clothes. It is a mix of (and I know from subtle research) the blue Lenor Concentrate fabric softener, Diesel PLUS PLUS aftershave, and Nivea for men soothing aftershave balm. Simply lovely. Besides from the smell though, are the memories that it brings with it. Holding hands as we sat in the train station waiting for the train home, both encased in massive parkas (they were ‘in’, ok?!) our breath in the air before us, our nearly blue hands the only parts of our bodies visible. Waking up in his tiny single bed enveloped in his arms, feeling so warm and safe, his breath tickling my ear. Sitting next to eachother on the front step, smoking roll up cigarettes, him trying to blow smoke rings and me keeping an eye out for maybugs (I hate them.). Walking along the high street in the summer, his arm slung over my shoulders and me with my thumb locked into his belt loop (lazy affection is the best kind). We had a lovely afternoon, post hug - we ate lunch and wondered around the town centre; it was nice to see him. It was nicer to be comfortable enough in our friendship that I could advise him on his relationship problems with his current girlfriend.

Last but not least, is the smell of one of my dad’s colognes. I could easily find out which one, but I daren’t - somehow, I feel it would ruin the magic of the scent. It would detract from the love and utter comfort I feel when I smell it, mid-cuddle with my usually rather affection-shy dad. To me it is the smell of intelligence, protection, and subtle power.

“Summer has come and passed, the innocent can never last…”