26/11/2025
Scent is the most unapologetic storyteller we have.
It sneaks past logic, dives straight into the hippocampus, and suddenly you’re not in your kitchen or car or office anymore — you’re back there, wherever “there” was for you.
For me, every Strange Smells In The Attic fragrance I’ve created is stitched to a memory — sometimes loud and bright, sometimes fragile and barely-there, sometimes hilarious, sometimes bittersweet.
“Roll in the Hay” drags me straight back to building forts in the hay bales on the property where I grew up in Northern NSW — itchy legs, sunburnt shoulders, and that triumphant feeling of constructing something only children would ever call structurally sound.
“Beatrix’s Veggie Patch” will forever smell like digging up carrots in my grandparents’ backyard on the Central Coast. Wet Dirt under my nails, a hose running for no reason, and a grandmother who insisted all carrots taste better if you “give them a kiss first.”
“Catholic Guilt” is sore knees on hard church pew kneelers, hundreds of Hail Marys, and a chapel that was about as old as the priest running it. If trauma had incense notes — well, here we are.
“Electric Tropics” tastes like Brisbane humidity and feels like walking home at 2am under the bougainvillea arches of Southbank after a shift behind the bar in one of the spicy clubs. Glitter, neon lights, questionable life choices, and the magnetic pull of a kebab shop after missing the last train.
“Petal Detoné”? That one is my mum. Full stop.
“Doughnut Forget Me” is standing in line at Queen Vic Markets, watching sugar fall like fresh snow while waiting for hot doughnuts that always burned your tongue but were worth every blister.
“Y2K Chaos” takes me straight back to my Royal Australian Navy days — the friendships forged, the drunken nights out, the found family moments, the absolute unhinged energy of being young and bulletproof.
“Nap Demon” and “Hey Baby” smell like the first warm evenings in Canberra when my infant daughter could splash in the bath without turning blue. Soft spring nights where I had no idea what I was doing, but she thought I hung the moon anyway.
“Fruit of the Flesh” and “Third Eye Itch” are Mindil Markets in Darwin — mango juice, sunblock, incense, and sunsets so beautiful the whole crowd would go silent at once.
“420 Friendly”… listen. It’s Nimbin. No further notes.
“Lawn and Order” smells like every weekend morning in suburbia when every neighbour has decided, telepathically, to mow their lawn at the exact same time. Except mine. Mine remains feral.
But scent also remembers the things we don’t want it to.
There are fragrances I will never create.
Not now.
Not ever.
Because there are smells that still snap my nervous system back twenty years — straight into survival mode, straight into moments I worked hard to climb out of.
Because domestic violence leaves more than bruises.
It leaves imprints. Echoes. Invisible alarms baked into the senses.
That’s why the 16 Days in WA – Stop Violence Against Women campaign matters.
From 25 November to 10 December, we are asked — loudly and urgently — to play our part in ending violence against women and children. Not just in policy, but in culture, behaviour, and the everyday choices we make about what we tolerate.
Scent can trigger memories.
Maybe it can also trigger conversations.
Support.
Accountability.
Change.
And maybe one day, the only memories a fragrance brings back are the ones that feel safe.
If you need support (WA):
📞 Women’s DV Helpline (24/7): 1800 007 339
📞 Men’s DV Helpline (24/7): 1800 000 599
📞 1800RESPECT: 1800 737 732
You deserve safety.
You deserve peace.
You deserve a future that smells nothing like your past.
