Turin had great fun penning his reviews, giving raves to fragrances he liked ("Thanks to Rive Gauche, mortals can at last know the scent of the goddess Diana's bathsoap") and slamming those he hated ("57 for Her is a sad little thing, an incongruous dried-prunes note with a metallic edge that manages the rare feat of being at once cloying and harsh").
After like 2 hours, my grandmother came into the bathroom and proceeded to tell me this story about a prince covered in dirt that could only travel via soap bubbles and how he stayed in the bath too long and ended up washing away before he could get the princess.