Something smelly this way comes...

There is something to be said for the benefits of not stopping smoking. Most important and relevant to me at the present time is the use of public transport in London. After a wasted journey to HR, which upon arrival I discovered that my proof of address was not appropriate, (argument for not pay all my bills online) while taking the number 18 bus from Euston I notice the scent of one of my fellow passengers. I suspected that he, I imagine it was a he, was sat almost directly behind me. The smell was unlike the heavily applied cologne or cooked food, or body odour that would usually get my goat and give me something to gripe about, nor was it the all to frequent musk of flatulence which I always feel is forgivable as when the shoe is on the other foot I feel a secret sense of satisfaction after silently letting one rip in public. No this smell was much worse. It was deeper and engrained in the fabric of his being. It was the smell usually only associated with pound coins and mechanics, or even scrap merchants. Ground in dirt. The smell of a tough days work. I knew without looking that this was not the smell of hard graft. It was the smell of sleeping on your mates sofa, putting on unwashed clothes, for rinsing your hair with water until it starts to clean itself, of going to bed when the sun comes up, and getting the bus home while everyone else is at work. I couldn’t help but think that if I still smoked I wouldn’t be able to smell my fellow passenger or that if he smoked he would certainly smell better. Focusing on the stench of muck was turning my belly so I let my mind wonder on to other things. I remembered an interesting fact: that an indicator of an individuals state of mental health is their level of personal hygiene as this is one of the first things to go. I felt bad for judging this person who I had still not turned around to see. I wondered if I had ever smelled like that.