Even I may be pushing the boundaries of self-deprecation for this one.
A colleague (let's call him Johnny Kilometre) recently remarked to me, via another colleague, that I may in fact have smelly feet (I hasten to mention that, as it transpires, the olfactory offender was most likely my gym bag, which had been admittedly under my desk for four days).
Naturally, this news initially caused me some distress. I was reminded of a time when me and the lads made a ferry crossing about ten years ago from England to Ireland; we had all just spent about six days in Holland...with about half as many days' change-of-underwear. One of the guys took off his shoes on the ferry, and the pong was immediate. 'Urgh,' one of us remarked. 'That smells like.....like......stale vinegar!' The guy who had taken off his shoes was so offended that he went, simply, ballistic. And trust me, being stuck on a ferry with a ballistic Irishman is about as comfortable an experience as walking around Harlem with a white pillowcase on your head.
I was also reminded of a skit that Bill Connolly once performed, in which he outlined an actual medical condition whereby the affected person unknowingly emanates a fishy smell. 'Can you imagine having that problem??" he said to the audience, incredulous. Yes Billy, it suddenly seemed- now I could.
I was suddenly Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple. Unashamedly, I asked other colleagues around me- Peeyush and Alison- if they too were harbouring some hidden resentment for my potentially pongy pieds.
'No,' said Peeyush adamantly. 'I would've picked it up,' he said, confidently tapping his nose as if he were a bloodhound.
I also asked Alison. 'I've never noticed it,' she said. '...but then, I've never sat directly opposite you,' she quickly added. 'Anyway, I'm sure it's your gymbag,' she finished, not without a trace of scepticism in her voice.
And so, gym bag now safely disposed of (in a toxic landfill somewhere), I returned to work on Monday, and prayed that fresh air be all around.
Either that or I return to my other conclusion: a teeny, tiny animal had many weeks ago climbed up one of Johnny's nostrils and died.
Let's hope so. For my sake.
Fin.
A colleague (let's call him Johnny Kilometre) recently remarked to me, via another colleague, that I may in fact have smelly feet (I hasten to mention that, as it transpires, the olfactory offender was most likely my gym bag, which had been admittedly under my desk for four days).
Naturally, this news initially caused me some distress. I was reminded of a time when me and the lads made a ferry crossing about ten years ago from England to Ireland; we had all just spent about six days in Holland...with about half as many days' change-of-underwear. One of the guys took off his shoes on the ferry, and the pong was immediate. 'Urgh,' one of us remarked. 'That smells like.....like......stale vinegar!' The guy who had taken off his shoes was so offended that he went, simply, ballistic. And trust me, being stuck on a ferry with a ballistic Irishman is about as comfortable an experience as walking around Harlem with a white pillowcase on your head.
I was also reminded of a skit that Bill Connolly once performed, in which he outlined an actual medical condition whereby the affected person unknowingly emanates a fishy smell. 'Can you imagine having that problem??" he said to the audience, incredulous. Yes Billy, it suddenly seemed- now I could.
I was suddenly Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple. Unashamedly, I asked other colleagues around me- Peeyush and Alison- if they too were harbouring some hidden resentment for my potentially pongy pieds.
'No,' said Peeyush adamantly. 'I would've picked it up,' he said, confidently tapping his nose as if he were a bloodhound.
I also asked Alison. 'I've never noticed it,' she said. '...but then, I've never sat directly opposite you,' she quickly added. 'Anyway, I'm sure it's your gymbag,' she finished, not without a trace of scepticism in her voice.
And so, gym bag now safely disposed of (in a toxic landfill somewhere), I returned to work on Monday, and prayed that fresh air be all around.
Either that or I return to my other conclusion: a teeny, tiny animal had many weeks ago climbed up one of Johnny's nostrils and died.
Let's hope so. For my sake.
Fin.
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