Bums don’t always smell

As much as I wanted to catch the express train home from Heathrow Airport, cutting down the journey by at least an hour, my meagre funds simply wouldn’t allow it. No-one likes facing the London Underground after a glorious holiday: transferring lines, lugging 20 kilos of luggage across gaps and over platforms and up stairs, in 28 degree weather (which equals 40 degrees in the tube milieu). There was little chance of the Spanish biscotti, I’d so kindly brought back for my colleagues, surviving intact. But, sooner or later, I knew that I had to plunge back into reality.

Close eyes.
Inhale.
You can do this Louise.
Buy ticket with last £3.80.
Enter train number one…

Enter malodorous looking homeless man. As he stood beside me, holding onto the railing with both hands (thus exposing his damp armpits to the United Kingdom), I suspected that this plunge back into reality would need to be executed with tightly blocked nostrils.

My spirit fading along with my holiday glow, something of a miracle occurred. The aroma of sweet lavender soap suddenly drifted into my nose. It was a scent that I hadn’t experienced for a long time, not since living in the country, not since hugging my grandmother. Surrounded by perspiring Englishmen wielding cans of beer, I was utterly perplexed: from whom did this heavenly bouquet originate?

And then it hit me.

It was coming from the homeless man. Despite his stained clothes, bare-feet and abundance of plastic bags, he smelt wonderful. I had learnt an important lesson - bums don’t always smell. If only more bums smelt like this, I would become the
donating, philanthropic type. 'Oh, go on, buy yourself a lovely bar of lavender soap!'