Rosewood Hotels & Resorts is pleased to announce the addition of yet another unique service that will make traveling easier and stress free. Now, when guests check into one of Rosewood’s iconic city properties, they will have gratis access to a dedicated 24-hour Fragrance Butler.
. . . guests can ring the Fragrance Butler at any time, and the butler will appear at their door, carrying a silver tray with ten luxurious fragrances for guests’ use. After selecting the fragrance of their choice, guests will mist themselves and the Fragrance Butler will disappear with the tray until he or she is rung again.
“I say, Jeeves, I’m rather in the mood to ankle over to Club Drone this evening.”
“Gussie Fink-Nottle tells me MC Crazy D will make a latish appearance at the turntable.”
“He is reputed to be the preeminent dubstep DJ, sir.”
“You’ve got that right, Jeeves. And I don’t envision myself throbbing to the beat in a dinner jacket. Better lay out my TriBeCa togs.”
“Very good, sir.”
Jeeves faded from the room in that rummy way he has, and I took the opportunity to wash down a tab of X with snort of brandy. Soon he rematerialized with a freshly pressed set of downtown threads. I climbed into the black A|X Sateen Five Pocket Pants, donned the black Chain Link Shirt, and was inserting the shapely Wooster toes into a pair of black Steve Madden boots when a sudden inspiration entered the old bean.
“Jeeves? Bring round the fragrance tray. As a finishing touch I need to make an artful appeal to the nostrils of my fellow bon vivants.”
I plopped the self down into the big leather chair and sparked up a largish doobbie-wah. I was leisurely exhaling a cloud of Malawi Gold when Jeeves returned to the dressing room. That is to say, he didn’t exactly enter it so much as he flowed into it. He was bearing the silver fragrance tray.
“What, ho, Jeeves. Hit me with a couple of squirts of Acqua di Gio and I’ll be the nasal sensation of the evening.”
“You don’t mean the Acqua di Gio, sir.”
“By Jove, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir.”
“What’s that?” Sometimes the man’s impertinence simply pushed the expansive Wooster envelope beyond the tearing point.
“It’s the best clubbing scent imaginable,” I insisted.
“Current opinion is divided on the point sir. May I suggest the Bleu de Chanel?”
“You may not. That’s the rot Aunt Agatha gave me for my birthday. I’d rather wear bug spray.”
“Then the Tom Ford Black Orchid, sir. It would merge quite appealingly with the rest of your ensemble.”
“Very well, Jeeves. But I think you need to re-examine your prejudice against Giorgio Armani. All the other chappies are wearing it by the gallon.”
There was something in his tone that grated on the auditory organs, but before I could summon a reposte, the iPhone warbled and I found myself in animated conversation with Harold “Stinky” Pinker.