The art of Perfume - Part 1

With Christmas less than 10 weeks away, and there being an never-ending run of arty perfume commercials on the telly, Mrs Pumphrey has decided to launch her own brand of scent. It is to be called 'Poulet' and is ' a heady combination of grass cuttings and summer corn mixed with a hint of compost bin and warm peat.' 'You've mis-spelt 'peat', says Mrs Pumphrey, peering over my shoulder as I type. I have been employed as copywriter (media and admin) as I am the only one who can type faster than three words a minute. 'It's not 'peat' as in the earthy stuff you grow plants in. It's Pete, as in my tango partner.' 'Is he warm?' I enquire. 'Very,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Especially when he wears Spandex hot pants. I've told him he should go for something cotton because it lets your feathers breathe, but I think he's trying to hang on to his youth a few more years yet.'

Not wishing to hear further information on this subject I ask more about the perfume. 'I've created a mood board,' says Pumphrey, heaving it onto the table in the kitchen (or 'press office' as she now insists on calling it.) I cast an eye over the art work. Given she doesn't have access to many materials she has done a remarkably good job. Bits of leaf and grass are set on a dust bath background; the overall colour theme is mustard yellow and lime green. 'It's not quite finished,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I wondered if I may have a look through your fabric box.' Always keen to encourage enterprise in my hens, I agree. 'Anything you're looking for in particular?' I ask. 'Chiffon,' Mrs P. replies determindly. 'And maybe a bit of lace.'

'And who do you have in mind to be your perfume model?' I ask, anticipating some heated bargaining with the agents of all the top models. 'Kate Winglet? Henda Eggvangilista? Hennifer Lopez? Naomi Henball?'

Mrs Pumphrey looks at me askance. 'Why, me, of course,' she says. 'I don't want some nose- in- the- air skinny bit of stuff who won't get out of bed for less than a bucket full of oats advertising my perfume. My perfume is for proper women, curvaceous women, women who like cakes and biscuits and mashed potato - proper mashed potato with butter, milk and maybe a dollop of pesto.'

'I see,' I say. At least I'll be able to keep within the £10 budget I've been allocated. Mrs Pumphrey gathers up her mood board. 'I've got Mrs Slocombe working on some packaging ideas,' she says. 'She said she'd do it in return for a bit part in the commercial. I thought she could be the one who all the guys stampede in order to get to me because I smell so great and she smells like a chicken.'

'Okay,' I say, sensing trouble further down the line. 'She suggested we develop an aftershave for men,' said Mrs P, pausing in her mission to find my fabric box. 'Had a name for it already.' 'Oh yes?' I say. 'It wouldn't work,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'She suggested 'Big Cock.' Big Cock? Can you imagine what my Pete would have to say about that?'

I don't dare think.