Abstract
I have a clear childhood memory of the icy scent of eucalyptus and camphor piercing my twitching nostrils. ‘There's a Wagon Wheel there for you,’ booms my Aunt Gladys from the kitchen table. Her voice is rich and gracious, like a contralto's. She sits with a towel over her head, breathing in the fumes of a steaming decoction she has prepared to wage war on her mucus-clogged sinuses. Decades later, and I'm still unable to nibble on a Wagon Wheel without conjuring the scent of those familiar head-numbing vapours and thinking of good old Glad the Inhaler.
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