You know, for a long, long time prior to Christmas, my wife sang the praises of Brooks Brothers’ 1818 cologne. How wonderful it would smell on me, she said. How sophisticated. How debonair. How wrow-wrow.

Well, Christmas arrived, and lo-and-behold, Santa had dropped a bottle of the stuff in my stocking (after having first gone through my wallet, I’m sure).

Fair enough. BB1818 is pretty pricey, but I’m usually perfectly content to go along with Madam’s wish if it makes her happy. However, I’ve gone through about half of the stuff now and do you know how often she’s remarked on how wonderful, how sophisticated, how debonair, how wrow-wrow it makes me?

Humph. Not once.

No, not one jot, not one tittle of a divvy have I seen from wearing it. And when I tell you that I don’t even much like the scent myself, you’ll understand why I begin to think this was a poor investment.

From here on out, I think I go back to the jolly old sandalwood.