In my eyes overuse of perfume and deodorant is worse than second hand smoke. I really do. I hate, hate, hate, going to those tiny, crammy, ground floor victorian flat conversion cousine restaurants in Richmond or Hampsted, where you have to sit literally right next to a group of tarty late thirties "girls about town" reliving their "Sex and The City" moment, and in the middle of the evening the sweet, heavy stink of their Channel 5, few years old J Lo and latest celebrity whatsnots start mixing with whiff of half digested house red and repeatedly molested with a fork piece of smoked seabass in the air around them.
Men are just as bad, though, few weeks ago we were out for some mexican food, and one of the couple of old gays in a booth next to us overdosed Old Spice to such a degree that when his Beef Fajita arrived all smoking and sizzling we literally had to ask for another table.