TO A HUSBAND WITH NO SENSE OF SMELL

My husband has a condition called anosmia. This means he has no sense of smell. 

For the most part, this works out pretty well for me.

For a start, I never have to buy scented sanitary towels. (Although why any woman needs a scented sanitary towel, unless she has a) neglected to change her sanitary pad in, like, two days, and also happens to be in a heatwave, or b) recently noticed her vagina is exuding a pyroclastic flow of green slime, is beyond me.)  

Ditto any other feminine hygiene products. 

But there are downsides to having a husband who can't smell.

For example, deep down, my husband believes there is no such thing as a bad smell. He prefers the idea that bad smells are simply figments of my imagination, originating in deep-seated neuroses and hysteria. So, if I say, "Darling, the living room is redolent with the smell of shite", or, "Did you happen to tread in a bunch of dog shit when you went to get those logs from the garden and then smear it over the carpet like some FUCKING FUCK?", he'll usually mutter something about PMT under his breath.  

PMT? Moi? As if!!

Another phrase he won't tolerate is "I think I can smell gas." 

This is what would happen if I said I could smell gas: I would be hustled into a locked attic like Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre. Anybody asking about me would be told I'd suffered a rapid and catastrophic descent into madness and been sent to the countryside.  (And all this because I once called out an emergency gas engineer when the actual source of the gas smell was some dead flowers.) So what! Sniffer dogs get it wrong four times out of five, and they still get given biscuits. I didn't even get as much as a thank you.

But the worst aspect of my husbands anosmia is that when it comes to the thing Chanel describes as the sexual allure of a woman's scent, I am beyond fucked. Whilst other women need do nothing except ovulate to be at the peak of their deliciousness, I have to 'work it' in other ways. All of which are a gazillion times more challenging. In other words, if I want to play mummies and daddies, I can't just waft the womanly bouquet of my armpits about the place, or douse myself in pheromones and then twat about Paris on a motorbike in a flesh-coloured catsuit, like Keira, or climb up a silk scarf ladder in full evening gown through a fucking skylight into some surreal Parisian landscape, like Charlize, oh no no no, I have to rely on, wait for it, The Way I Look!! And this after three children. And one good night's sleep. About eight years ago. Ha ha ha ha ha! *laughs grimly into the long, lonely night, like Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre*

On the bright side, I can fart whenever I like. Which is bloody excellent news.