Sweet smells (and The Fridge)

I was spoilt rotten this past weekend, when dearest friends E and C (aka B and D), took me to Floris to redeem my birthday bespoke fragrance gift. As if this wasn't tantalising enough, my pregnancy hormones (those old things again), have rendered my sense of smell supersonic, so my nostrils were flying in overdrive the minute we crossed the Jermyn Street threshold.
It was a thoroughly indulgent and fascinating experience. The Floris nose talked us through base notes, sea algae, Jade Goody's surprisingly complex fragrance and everything else in between. I came out swinging a very snazzy bag from my arm that contained the unique fragrance now known as No.30 - it's a play on my age, and that old Chanel smell that still lingers on many dressing tables (not, I point out, on my own, now that the Floris is there). Anyway, this was without a doubt the pinnacle of my new uber nose.
At the other end of my odour meter is our fridge. Ever since I've had a bun in the oven, I've had major problems with this helpful piece of electrical equipment. Not only does the door squeak when you open in (absolutely nothing to do with being pregnant, but something that frustrates me on at least a thrice daily basis), but the smells that fester inside its cool atmosphere, attack my delicate shnoze like nothing else.
I'm making it sound like I have mouldy old food in my refrigerator. And yet we do our weekly Ocado shop and are very good at throwing away anything out of date. So I think it must just be the concentration of food pongs in one vessel that gets my goat everytime. This is what darling husband says when I pinch my nose and wretch in the background as he tries to reach for the butter, 'Oh for goodness sake, not that again...' Followed swiftly by, 'Ok, you get in there with your mega nostrils and find the offending bit and I'll sort out the rest.' And he does. And my nose lives to fight another day.