Smell

Sticky South London 5.37 pm.

The worst kinds of school boy are the ones still walking home at 5.30. School finished two hours ago and they're still hanging around the streets like a bad smell. Carrying a battered football, he's surprisingly hairy, more hairy than you in fact. He stares at you from under a thick black monobrow and as he's walking toward you he clacks a big red gobstopper across his tiny crocodile teeth, pushing it from side to side with his tongue. You were never any good at keeping eye contact and your head is forced to look down at the pavement as he stares at you.
"Poof! he shouts loudly as your shoulders buffet. He's surprisingly strong and knocks you off your stride, nearly sending you tumbling into the express traffic. One thing the British do best is, in times of crisis, they can act like everything is completely normal. You regain your balance and walk on with a blank expression concentrating on moving forward. One step. Two step. Three step.

He's got hairy knuckles. His wedding band almost buckling, barely visible, as his fat fingers bulge around its side. The man Spies you teetering on the edge of the curb, turns to his work mate and chuckles.
"Watch this lads. He says gripping the wheel and turning it left. The ten ton metal truck reluctantly lurches over with a groan, and flies past your ear almost shaving the hair off it. You're bounced about like a pea in a tin as the dustbin van rumbles by, but, being British, you fix your blank gaze in a forwards direction and one step two on ahead. Laughing comes from the front while at the back the truck's rotten teeth are exposed, covered in a thick sticky emulsion, which are black from crushing waste.

Your brain hates you, it wants you to die. As you hold your breath it begs of you to take just one tiny sniff. It's an appallingly hot day, the hottest in decades, and by the look of the crusher this is a once in a lifetime smell. Pure, concentrated stench. 'Go on' eggs your brain, it does seem disgustingly appealing. You cave into the rising pressure and take in one little whiff.

Aniseed?

It smells nice. You smell again and the same spicy sweet aroma fills the back of your head. You wish you hadn't sniffed the third time as the single most beautiful girl on the planet is walking up the road in your direction. There you are, head up, smelling the air behind a rubbish truck like a Velociraptor. As she steadily approaches you realise that you'll never get married.

You can never get married because you can't keep eye contact with anyone for longer than a second. You see the happy couples on television or in churches, gazing achingly into each other eyes for an actual eternity. As she nearing she looks at you, generally, and your eyes dart away down to the floor.

You know this may sound perverted but you just couldn't help yourself and you're sure every bloke has done it at one time or another. As she wafts past brushing your shoulder lightly you take a deep but silent sniff of her hair.
"EEeurrggh! you sputter. It smells like shit.
"What! She barks baffled, spinning round. "What the hell are you doing?
"Oh, nothing sorry, I feel, I was feeling sick. Sorry, sorry
"Prick. She fires out quietly under her breath striding quickly up Lea Bridge Road.

God that's terrible, you think. An old man is lying on some flattened cardboard boxes, huddled up like a dirty foetus. Poor guy you think as he opens one eye and looks up at you.
"Spare any change?
The man's rotten teeth are exposed, covered in a thick sticky emulsion, which are black from neglect. You're about to ignore his existence as you normally would but something makes you stop still, standing in the middle of the pavement. Grabbing the tramp by the shoulders you pull him into a sitting position and bend down and push your face into his greasy hair inhaling deep lungfuls of the sweet, sweet smelling smell. You wrap your arms around you and he struggles.
"Gerr-off! The tramp protests as you clamp yourself to him. He smells so good you cannot resist.

After a little struggle he manages to break you off. It was worth it, that was the best smell you have ever had in your nose. It might have seemed a little strange to anyone who might have witnessed it, but as you drift off contemplating the bizarre events of the last ten minutes an overall feeling of contentment neutralizes any embarrassment you might have felt. Something weird is happening to your nose, the aniseed rubbish truck, the rotting hair girl and the sexy tramp.

Suddenly like toast popping from a toaster you understand, the smells are being delayed, bumped down one place in the queue. The girl smelled of rubbish and the old geezer smelt of that lovely girl so¦

Oh my god, you panic. You mustn't smell anything. You pinch your nose a make a break for it. You don't know where you're going but think if maybe you get home and maybe if you don't smell anything else today maybe you'll be ok.

Thinking of your face snuggling in those matted locks makes you up the pace. Lea Bridge Road is a busy road, especially at this time of day. Like throwing a heavy graceless sack of potatoes onto a car bonnet you smash your head onto a woman's car windshield.

Lying on your back your vision begins to regain some clarity. A medic is placing an oxygen mask round the back of your head, as she ties it round your head and tightens it you can faintly hear her say.
"That's it, just be still, you've had an accident. Just relax and take nice deep breaths.