THE boys have all returned to school, university and work, so the odour has gone. I’m not talking about the stench of sweaty trainers, or damp towels and muddy sports gear left on their bedroom floors. I’m referring to the strong smell of male scent.

Since the boys’ auntie works for a company which makes perfumes for most of the big, expensive labels, the boys received some sample bottles for Christmas. Those, combined with the smellies they receive as presents from other friends and family, has meant the air is full of a mixture of nostril-tingling floral, musky and sweet smells.

It takes me back to the Eighties, when I was put off wearing perfume by the overpoweringly strong scents of the time. Women wafting along in a cloud of Obsession, Poison or Opium, would make my eyes burn when they walked past me in the street, invading my personal space with their heady smells, so intense that sometimes you could actually taste them.

Then, men didn’t wear strong scent so much. But now the market for male fragrance and body sprays, especially those aimed at teenage boys, is huge. Having only ever smothered himself in cheap male sprays like Lynx, 13-year-old Albert’s bedroom now has so many lotions and potions lined up it looks like some sort of laboratory.

He has been wearing Paco Rabanne 1 Million into school every day while his older brother, Roscoe, is doused in Armani Code. Given that many of their friends have also had scents for Christmas, I feel for those teachers faced with the strong stench of these merging male aromas in their classrooms every day.

What makes it worse is that boys don’t tend to shower after games. I don’t know if this is because school showers are inadequate, it’s not encouraged because of fear of potential lawsuits or there isn’t the time. But a straw poll of my boys and their friends at different schools suggests this is common practice.

So after gym and rugby, the poor teachers’ nostrils are hit by a potent chemical onslaught as the odour of sweat mingles with cheap, industrial smelling body sprays combined with whatever scents the boys have put on that morning. Thankfully, by the time the boys get home most of it has worn off.

I NEVER buy a Lottery ticket but, on a whim while queueing up at the newsagent’s on Saturday, I decided to buy one for every member of the family. There was much discussion about what we would do with the money, should we win, including buying a house with a swimming pool and tennis courts, investing in a chain of waffle cafes and donating to various charities. But 20-year-old Patrick had other ideas: “I’d go out and find myself a gold-digger,” he said.

AS I write, news has broken of the death of David Bowie. I grew up listening to his music as my older sister, who used to wear Ziggy Stardust lightning streak make-up on her face, was a huge fan. I’ve been listening to Bowie all over Christmas as I’ve just got Spotify and he’s one of the few artists on my playlist that my boys have on theirs too. He crosses all generations. My sister, who has been on the phone with her Bowie memories, including the time that Mum let her put a poster of him up in our dining room, recalls: “Do you remember when he appeared on Top of the Pops and Dad said, ‘Is that a girl?’” I think David Bowie, the master of reinvention who defied all definition, would have liked that.

CALL me jaded and cynical, but I didn’t bother making any resolutions this year. I decided not to set myself up for failure. But 13-year-old Albert gave himself a challenge: “I’m giving up sweets for a year,” he announced optimistically. I asked him how it was going after a few days. “I’ve changed it to only for January,” he said. I caught him eating a piece of chocolate a few days after that: “I’ve come to a compromise. I’m just going to eat fewer sweets,” he said. I hope your resolutions have lasted longer than his, and a very happy New Year to you all.