Just last Sunday my father handed me a few plums, freshly picked from a tree in his garden. Hot and ripe. Like Poison.

That luscious, sweet, fruity smell transported me within a second on a late September day when I impatiently unwrapped my birthday present. It was 1986. I held in my hands my very own, very first, very grown-up perfume. I was dreaming about it since I first saw the bottle (never had a chance to smell a tester or really try it on, it was a wild desire based on an advertising photo). Nothing I have ever smelled felt a scent like that, and all the girly, fresh, light, and youth tainted perfumes I was familiar with were simply bombed away with this one.

It was Poison by Christian Dior.