The human female is in possession of a bottle of rather nice perfume. Norns know she needs something to cover up her natural funk. She is quite enamored of it because it smells rather deliciously of oil of bergamot.
Or rather, it used to.
She prizes it so highly that she only wears it on special occasions, doling it out a spritz here and a spritz there.
Her parsimony has come to nip her in the behind. She was being such a miser about it that I decided to hurry along the natural changes that take place in a bottle of perfume, especially one whose base is floral or citrussy. She is now in possession of a bottle of something spoiled and reeky that will entice no one.
There, mortal. I fixed the label for you.