I must share with you all a story that resulted in my
discovery of the term ‘the great unwashed’ last Thursday. It was 7.20 am and I’d just caught the bus to
Poole. Like all commuters these days, I
was nose in book and deep in a melodramatic tale of Victorian skulduggery (The
Moonstone). I’d not been paying the
slightest attention to other fellow travellers getting on or off the bus, my
story was too gripping for that.
Some minutes into my journey, I vaguely heard the rustle of
anorak that generally accompanies the occupation of the seat behind but thought
nothing of it that is until the first tell-tale whiff. Slowly but surely, the tentacles of a malodorous
stench began to unfurl themselves behind me.
A waft of landfill, bag-lady and unwashed pee-sodden clothes combined crept
over my shoulder, tickled my nostrils and gradually snuffed out freshness like
a pair of freshly licked fingers pinching out a candle flame.
At first I tried to ignore it and focused even closer on the
printed page. Then I prayed the person
would get off at the next stop. Or the
next stop. Or maybe the one at
Westbourne but clearly the good Lord was
having a 5 minute lie in and not to be disturbed. The stench grew like an atomic mushroom cloud.
After 10 minutes, the pong had launched
an all-out assault on the bus. I could
no longer concentrate on my book and instead shuffled down in the seat,
stealthily pulling up my scarf till it rested just above my lips. It was no good, even the slightly perfumed
fluffiness was no match for the hellish smell.
I was trapped. Miles
from Poole and with no hope of getting off any time soon, I resorted to rooting
round noisily in my handbag for some emergency mints and a pocket
atomiser. I was dying to turn round and
publically spritz the stinker but a sense of decorum prevented me from doing
so. I had to make do with a couple of
quick blasts behind the ears of the Body Shop’s neroli and jasmine, take a deep
breath then hope for free-flowing traffic.
Imagine the relief when my bus stop finally arrived! Usain Bolt couldn’t have got to the front of
the bus quicker. I jumped off and
greedily gulped in a few good puffs of fresh air. I stared back at the windows as the bus
pulled off. There was the culprit – a middle
aged, bearded man in a scruffy grey anorak, completely oblivious it seemed to
the fact that he smelt like a refuse collector and had curdled everyone’s
breakfast tea in their stomachs.
And thus I learnt of the term ‘the great unwashed’ and
realised why most commuters prefer to drive to work in the mornings.
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