Further to my last post, I can't help mentioning that, at the airport, en route to the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, I actually sampled some of what's being passed off as YSL's Opium. Words cannot express the shock I experienced.
Unable to believe what my nose was telling me, I rushed across to M7, about whose transformation I'd also heard horror stories. Sure enough, the bold, hairy-chested, fiendishly woody-citrus-animalic opening has vanished and been replaced by something depressingly thin and airy. And if this new juice contains oud, I'm Edmond Roudnitska's uncle! How very, very sad indeed.
I sought consolation in a mightily liberal dose of Chanel's Cuir De Russie... and I drowned my wife in Coromandel, just for good measure.