Mrs Whacked has been led by the nose in a recent deal. Me too, come to think of it.
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She’s become involved in the gentle art of filling our house with stuff that smells great and makes you feel good. It probably has a New Age name, nosiology, or something like that, but of the range of New Age stuff which could creep into your life, this one’s clearly good.
For one, it has tended to dull the offensiveness of two wet, muddy Corgis romping through the lounge, drying themselves on the tasteful (but pongy) cushions. It reminds me of St Joseph’s Primary School, Red Cliffs, circa 1962. Only without the sour milk and Vegemite sandwiches.
We go home now to wafts of lavender, and ginger and bushy scents and many other unidentifiable but possibly healthful things.
She is somewhat surprised that I’m on the same page as her on this, but when you live with two dogs, two cats and it’s the middle of a damp, dingy winter, what other page could you be on?
Mrs Whacked said her guru (my name, not hers, sorry Gina) reckons there’s a man’s range of these essential oils also available for any chap who thinks he might be leaning too much to the XX side of the chromosome scale and yearns for a little Y in the air.
“Good,” I said. “I could suggest a few essential oils I’d go for.”
WD40, 5W50, 98 Octane, Eau de Shiraz, Chops Alight, old leather belts, new car upholstery, the smell of someone else doing the painting. That sort of thing.
Actually, I know precisely the essential oil I’d pay at least $2.48 a drop for: the smell of Ferrari F430 leather racing seats.
I experienced that last weekend, along with a similar offering from a Lamborghini Gallardo. Mrs Whacked (lovely woman she is) bought me a chance to drive BOTH of these hypercars around the hills outside Melbourne last weekend.
I thought there might be a whiff of anxiety mingled with damp armpits from me about this, but that’s not how it turned out.
These two cars were such sheer joy machines, designed to do nothing else except make drivers smile and feel sort of competent, that for me from now on the Essential Oil called I’m In A Ferrari F430 And You’re Not will forever sit on the shelf labelled Happiness.
To be truly effective, it should multi-sensory, and make a sound when you open the vial: Roarrr, braaap, rrrrr, braaap.
The bit that makes me most delighted about the experience is that I did not have to smell the sheer terror of accidentally driving a half-million-dollar car through a shop front, which – I am told – has happened.
It is just possible I might stop smiling. But not soon.
Wayne Gregson is a former editor of the Bendigo Advertiser and a former councillor for the City of Greater Bendigo. Bushwhacked is published in the Bendigo Advertiser each Friday.