You know that feeling when you stumble upon something completely unexpected? That’s exactly what happened when I pushed open the door to Floris on Jermyn Street. One minute I’m dodging tourists on Piccadilly, the next I’m standing in what feels like a secret from another century.

Floris has been here since 1730 and I mean really here. Same family, same building, same handwritten ledgers that are now bursting with nearly three centuries of secrets. Juan Famenias Floris, a Spanish barber from Menorca, started it all when he decided London needed proper perfume. Smart man.

The clientele list reads like a who’s who of history. Churchill couldn’t function without his No. 127 (apparently citrus was his thing, who knew?). Marilyn Monroe had Rose Geranium shipped to Beverly Hills. The Queen gave them a Royal Warrant in 1971, and they’re still making scents for the royals today. Walking in feels a bit like trespassing on a very posh family secret.

While the history was fascinating, I had come for something more personal, to create my own bespoke fragrance

Testing 300 Years of Perfume in One Afternoon

They start you with champagne. Proper champagne, not prosecco, which immediately signals that this isn’t your average shopping trip. Anna, the perfumer who’d be my guide for the next few hours, settled in across from me with the kind of questions that make you pause.

What do you actually like? Did I imagine it as an everyday signature? Something to save for special moments? Do you want to smell expensive or approachable? Mysterious or sunny?

I told her I was looking for something fresh and light, nothing too heavy, sweet or dated.

Anna started with a history lesson disguised as a fragrance journey. She pulled out three bottles, each representing a different era. The first was from 1718, quintessentially citrus with a soft musk base. “Probably not something you’d find today,” she said as I sniffed.

She was right. It was pleasant but almost too citrusy for my taste. “Maybe a bit too citrus,” I admitted, and Anna smiled knowingly.

“Perfect. So then perhaps the next one might be an antidote to that.”

The second was No. 127 – Churchill’s favorite. A hundred years later, much more nuanced, with soft bergamot, aniseed, and orange blossom. This was a style piece, not just about being clean.

“I think I prefer this one, actually,” I said, then immediately contradicted myself. “Actually, I think maybe this one’s a bit too strong.”

Anna laughed. “It’s hard. They both will calm down a little bit over time. The thing with top notes and citrus is that they hit you very quickly, but then they calm down.”

She was right, within minutes, the scent had settled into something I could actually imagine wearing. “Now it feels a bit masculine, but I like that,” I told her.

“Well, actually, this was the favorite of Winston Churchill, and then later of Eva Perón,” Anna replied. “So it’s very much unisex.”

The third fragrance brought us into the 2000s, introducing notes like amber and musk that just didn’t exist in earlier perfumery. It was more refreshing, more floral. This one I loved immediately.

“Okay, so that’s the favorite one,” Anna noted, clearing away the rejects. “So we’re looking for a citrus, but a softer citrus.”

“How do you feel about florals?” Anna asked. I told her I liked them, but wanted that refreshing quality, nothing too super floral or powdery.

“Apparently, if you like citrus, you probably aren’t a fan of powdery,” she said with a smile. “Let’s explore that.”

She started with a bridge between citrus and floral, something with bergamot but with rose as the base. I liked it, a little bit sweeter but not overpowering. Next came a very clean white floral.

“When we talk about people who like citrus, they often also like things that feel clean and fresh,” Anna explained as I tested it.

Then came the curveball – iris. “This one may be an absolute crash and burn,” Anna warned. “It’s a very different texture. It’s floral without being floral and sweet without being evidently sweet.”

She wasn’t wrong about the crash and burn. “I don’t like this,” I said immediately.

“What people sometimes pick up a lot on is the old makeup smell,” Anna said.

“Yes! Yes, lipstick!” I blurted out. That was exactly what it reminded me of, my grandma’s red lipstick that I always assumed, was long past its expiration date.

Anna brought out more florals, a bouquet that was apparently made for Queen Victoria’s wedding day, then a modern interpretation of the same blend. I preferred the modern version, which seemed to be a pattern emerging.

“You mentioned you like some of the masculine fragrances as well,” Anna said. “Obviously, there’s no such thing as masculine and feminine, but I know exactly what you mean.”

She handed me something sandalwood-heavy but with a freshness that cut through. “It’s cleaner, sharper edged, a fougère style,” she explained.

“I love this,” I said immediately. “This feels really masculine, but I love it.”

Anna explained that originally, fragrances wouldn’t have had a gender, they would have been just scented. The gendering was a more recent development, and often fragrances initially imagined for men were taken over by women.

The making of ‘Theia’

Decision Paralysis

After smelling what felt like more dozens of fragrances, Anna gave me champagne (the carbonation apparently helps refresh your nose, who knew?) and asked me to narrow it down to two, tops four favorites.

This was harder than it sounds. I found myself second-guessing everything, picking up bottles and putting them down again. “It’s so hard,” I whispered to myself while Anna stepped out of the room briefly.

When she returned, I’d managed to get it down to four: one from every fragrance family we’d explored. Anna suggested we test them on my skin, since fragrances can change dramatically once they meet your body chemistry.

“Are you wearing any fragrance today?” she asked. When I nodded, she sent me upstairs to wash my wrists with water (no soap, we wanted to work from my natural skin).

This is where things got interesting. Anna applied the four finalists to different spots on my hands and wrists, then made me wait. “Try not to smell it straight away. Just let the alcohol evaporate.”

She was right to make me wait. When I finally tested them, one stood out immediately. “Very clear, very decided,” Anna observed. “That’s the one we’re going with.”

As we waited for the scents to develop, Anna showed me the famous ledgers, the handwritten records that go back to the 1930s and ’40s. The pages are filled with names I recognised: the Duke of Windsor (formerly the Prince of Wales) buying the same product for eight years during the abdication crisis; Mrs. Winston Churchill shopping her way through the Second World War.

“Churchill used to drink a pint of champagne at lunch and a bottle at dinner,” Anna mentioned casually as we flipped through pages of his wife’s purchases. “Huge bills for champagne.”

The ledgers felt like holding living history. Every page told a story, clients moving house (you could track the address changes), changing their orders around Christmas time, or remaining loyal to the same product for decades.

Making it mine

With my base fragrance chosen, Anna began the real work: customising it to create something uniquely mine. She brought out her library of individual notes, each one a building block we could add or emphasise.

We started with top notes, the first thing you smell. “We already have them in your base,” Anna explained, “but we could accentuate them if you wanted.”

The first option was too floral for my taste. The second, grapefruit blossom was “very unusual” but I wasn’t sure about it either. Then came the game-changer: fig leaf.

“It’s very potent,” Anna warned. “When I smell this, I smell fig leaf, but my colleagues don’t. So I know there are people out there who don’t pick it up.”

But I did pick it up, and I loved it. It smelled exactly like crushing green leaves in your hands, fresh, green, alive. “It’s strong,” I said, “but I kind of like it.”

“I’ll be doing about six drops, just to give a bit of edge to it,” Anna assured me.

Next came the heart notes, the body of the fragrance. Anna presented a woody amber that she described as having “an element of masculinity to it.” I’d already established I liked slightly masculine scents, so this felt right.

Finally, the base notes that would give the fragrance its lasting power. Anna showed me something called Java wood. “This gives depth, enhances the woody notes,” she explained.

“If I have more depth ingredients, does it mean it might last longer?” I asked.

“It will,” Anna confirmed. “But I’m not too worried about longevity if we have these other notes in there as well.”

As Anna began blending the final formula, she asked me something that caught me off guard: “Has your sense of smell changed since you had a baby?”

I thought about it. “I don’t think so for perfumes, but I’ve developed issues with other smells. I think it’s just hormonal.”

Anna nodded. “We do have clients who come in whilst being pregnant. I always ask if they’re happy to do it now, understanding that it might change afterwards. But everyone has said they’re happy, and it doesn’t seem to have changed too much.”

The conversation reminded me why I was really here. This wasn’t just about creating a beautiful scent, it was about capturing a moment in time, a new chapter in my life.

When Anna asked what I wanted to name my fragrance, the answer came immediately: “Theia. After my daughter.”

Theia is only six months old, but she’s already changed everything about how I see the world. This perfume captured something I couldn’t quite put into words, the feeling of being completely different yet entirely myself since having Theia.

Anna carefully measured and mixed the final formula: luminous citrus top notes, a green-floral heart lifted by that distinctive fig leaf, and a warm, slightly masculine base with sandalwood and amber. It was elegant and modern, fresh but not fleeting, sophisticated but not intimidating.

She bottled it in Floris’s signature glass flacon and engraved my initials on the front. More importantly, she entered the formula into those famous leather-bound ledgers, the same books that contain recipes for Churchill and Monroe.

“This means that whenever you run out, you can simply return and reorder Theia exactly as it was crafted for you,” Anna explained. “The formula will be waiting.”

Anna had mentioned that most of these bespoke sessions are gifts: anniversary presents, Christmas surprises, wedding party experiences. And honestly, it’s exactly the kind of memorable, extravagant gift that creates lasting memories rather than just another item to add to the collection. “It’s such an amazing gift,” I’d told her. “You keep the recipe, you can come back and reorder, you name it yourself. It’s completely custom-made, never going to be discontinued, and no one else is going to have it.”

But experiencing it for myself, I realised it’s about more than the uniqueness. It’s about the process, the conversation, the discovery, the moment when scattered notes suddenly click into something that feels like you. Anna had called it autobiography in a bottle, and she wasn’t wrong.

Now when I wear Theia, I think about that afternoon, the champagne, flipping through those old ledgers, and how much I ended up loving fig leaf (which I’d never even heard of before). But mostly, I think about Theia, my daughter, whose name is now recorded in the same ledgers as Churchill and Monroe. That’s quite special.

The whole experience was worth it, though. At £750, it’s not exactly pocket money, but having something made just for you feels rare these days. Plus, it really does smell incredible.

For more information visit www.florislondon.com

Floris London
89 Jermyn Street, London SW1Y 6JH
020 7747 3666

Words by Raluca Tudose