… when after finally finding a seat on the packed bus, some odd smell hits your nostrils like a Mike Tyson left hook. It is an odd mix of stale sweat, putrid urine and beer. You look around, wondering what the source might be. When the portly gentleman seated right next to you moves, a fresh salvo assaults your nostrils identifying him as the culprit. Unfortunately, the next stop is a full fifteen minutes away, so you are stuck with ‘savouring’ the smells. ...
I lug my knapsack, and join the queue at the bus stop. It is one of those really cold days, made worse because the day before was on the other side of warm and I am not properly dressed for the weather - that, and the howling wind. There is a little queue building up - roadworks have meant that the bus is operating a slightly lighter schedule. A man walks up to me wearing a kilt and holding bag pipes. He seems to be in his late thirties or early forties and there is the ubiquitous whiff of alcohol on his breath - and a few weeks old stubble on his chin with a smattering of grey. I increase the volume a little more on my iPod to stave off the inevitable inane banter. He doesn’t seem impressed. He shifts from one foot to the other making wheezing noises all the time. ...