You know, I once smelt Teen Spirit.

It was in a minimart near the beach in Puerto Vallarta in January 1991. I was waiting there for Max, one of the friends I’d been travelling with who was trying to barter with the owner for smokes.

Max, who had run out of money a whole week before we were due to head back to college in frozen Canada, was a budding artist, and reckoned that the shop owner would be willing to exchange a packet of cheap Mexican cigarettes in exchange for an original piece of artwork, an expressive work doodled in a dull moment on a train on thick card using my mascara wand, some lipstick, a green pencil, some concealer and a biro.

I don’t think Max ultimately managed to persuade the owner to part with a packet in exchange for art - though I bet the shopkeeper would kick himself if he knew that Max is now making his name in the art world…

In fact, if I recall corrently, Max borrowed the fag money from me, instead - money I would otherwise have spent on the comedy stick of sickly-sweet deodorant I’d been eyeing with amusement in the toiletries aisle.

But I digress. I didn’t mean to write about that at all. I was going to write something else entirely, about smell and memory, and that title made me think of this, instead. Bugger.

Still, since I leant him the money to feed his habit, I got the drawing. And it’s probably better to have an original piece of makeup-drawn art as a souvenir of my Mexican adventure, than a rubbish anti-perspirant.