The great unwashed
Rather than facing The Pile Of Laundry That Would Not Fold Itself, yesterday morning I grabbed a shirt I found on the back of the couch and the only pair of jeans that have not been washed and therefore did not risk cutting into my flesh until the freshly-shrunk material relaxed back into a more confortable fit.
The jeans had artfully distressed holes at the knees. The shirt was striped. With a floral print. And wrinkles all over from being dried in a knot. Add to this the fact that I have not clipped my beard down to an acceptably groomed appearance for over a week, and needless to say, I looked like a tramp.
The Victoria Line train was packed, so I had to stand very near a man who was reading 'The Lord Has Put Words Into My Mouth'. Something ponged, and I very much wished that The Lord Had Put Soap Into His Shower instead.
I changed onto the Central Line and sat sandwiched between two fairly large women and their skinny lattes. And that smell again. I rejoiced in the fact that winter is upon us, with its twofold purifing effect of less heat = less sweat and more cold = more clothes between rank bodies and sensitive nostrils.
Once at work, I went into the kitchen to put my lunch away, and as I bent down and opened the fridge door, I was hit with the same unwashed smell. And then I was hit again, this time with the realisation that it came from my clothes.
Trust me never to miss an opportunity to accessorise: not only did I look like a tramp - I smelled like one too.
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