 |
| Down in the jungle where nobody goes... |
I guess that there are a number of ways that you can react
if you do something wrong.
There's the George Washington approach of performing a complete mea culpa. Immediately ‘fess up. Admitting
that you have done wrong and hope that you are forgiven. Truth, then hopefully
reconciliation. And if you feel the need you can always find a handy tree to fell;
There is the classic 'A big boy done it and ran away'. Let someone else take the blame. A favourite of young children and disgraced former energy ministers.
You can adopt the Rupert Murdoch approach. Deny, deny, deny. Then pretend that you have forgotten whatever it was you were denying.
Or, you can just ignore it and hope no one will notice or that someone else will be blamed. The fart in an elevator approach, if you will.
I read with interest the other week about a foul smell that
had infected the south of England. A gas leak from Rouen, just north of Paris was blamed. A favourable wind having spreading the stench all the way across the English Channel to
the home counties. Apparently, Mercaptan, a nasty smelling additive that is put into natural gas, so you can tell if there is a leak, had been accidently released. An open and shut case, or so it seemed.
There was a comedy series that screened on BBC Scotland a
number of years ago called Chewing the Fat. I was in exile in London at the
time and only caught the series when I was visiting home at christmas. I found
it hilarious and decided it was scandalous that this series did not have wider
exposure to the rest of the country. I promptly purchased the DVD and felt it
was my duty to act as a cultural prophet and export this comedy gold to the philistine south.
Amidst great fanfare I insisted that my flat mates sit and watch the programme
with me. Whilst I sat, my cheeks wet with tears of hilarity, my sides sore from laughter, my two flat mates
sat in stony faced silence. Despite sharing the same language I guess the comedy just didn’t translate.
One of the sketches followed the fortunes of a couple of
fictional lighthouse keepers marooned on a rock in the middle of a perpetually stormy
sea. It chronicled the practical jokes played by one of the keepers on the
other. The bottom of bed pans were removed, flies of simmits were sown up, the
last page of books were ripped out etc. The scenes always finished with the
first lighthouse keeper saying…
‘Gonnae no dae that?’ (‘Would you mind refraining from doing
that?’)
‘How?’ (‘Can I enquire as to why?’)
‘Just gonnae no?’ (‘I would just prefer if you didn’t’)
I have already relayed that working out on the turbo trainer
is not my most favourite of pass times (Elvis is alive and cycling). But not only is it difficult for me, it is a generally a pretty anti social activity. I don’t live in a large flat and the turbo
takes up most of the front room. Even if you could look past that, the noise is similar
to that of a jet engine starting up and me stripped to the waist and coursing
with sweat is a less than appetising sight; especially first thing in the
morning.
Once I get off the hamster wheel my kit as well as a towel
used to mop my brow are absolutely saturated. Not wanting to throw this soiled kit in the wash basket I
often put it straight in the washing machine until I have enough to put a wash
on.
My flat mate, lets call him ‘Mark’ so as not to cause any
unnecessary embarrassment, has many attributes and he is a fine fellow.
However, stoicism is not high on his list of personality traits. At the first
sign of falling leaves Mark will be hit by a ‘flu that will render him all but incapacitated. This state of near death usually lasts a few days and is
probably repeated a couple of times before the coming of spring. It means that
the heating in the flat will be pumped up to maximum, any available hot water
bottles will be purloined and he won’t emerge from under a duvet for a week. Towards the end of January 'Mark' was hit with a particularly virulent strain of 'flu.
Coming back from work to a flat that feels more like a sauna
than a house, with condensation streaming down the windows, made spending time
on the turbo trainer even more challenging and unpleasant than usual. I was loosing a ton in
weight during a turbo session. This weight was transferred directly into my
kit as sweat, which, as usual, I threw straight into the washing machine.
Towards the end of the week I came home to be hit, as usual,
with a wall of heat as I entered the flat from the cold of outside. Rushing to
take off my jacket so as not to spontaneously combust I was right inside the
flat before I noticed the stench that had permeated through the building.
This smell was nauseating, like a mixture of diesel fuel and rotten
eggs. 'Mark', having been in the flat all day had not noticed the stink. His feet were the chief suspect and I didn't hold back in voicing my displeasure. I accused him of lacking personal hygiene and
insisted that all windows were opened and that he take himself off to the
shower forthwith. He volubly and vigorously denied his guilt, but was unable to come up with a viable explanation for the olfactory assault. After a lull in our contretemp, hoping to pour oil on
troubled water, Mark piped up.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I put your washing into the tumble
drier’
‘What washing?’
‘The stuff that was in the washing machine’
‘Ah… that wasn’t washing’
‘But it was dripping wet’
The fart in the elevator technique to facing up to mistakes
may not be the most moral approach, however in this instance it worked. I fear that the chemical factory
in Rouen may not have been the source of the stench in Maidstone. Kit, soaked in sweat from workouts conducted in stifling heat, had
already been fermenting for a few of days in the washing machine had then
been cooked nicely in the tumble drier was more likely to have been responsible.
I'm sure you can imagine the smell and the residents of numerous south coast towns can attest to
it.
To the workers of Rouen, I say, ‘Cétait moi et je suis désolé’ and sorry for
besmirching the good name of your town.
To the good people of the South of
England, I can only apologise and hope that no undue stress or harm was caused.
And to ‘Mark’, sorry for all the noise and the unedifying early
morning vistas. Thanks for being so considerate and tumble drying my kit. But
to borrow from the wonderful lighthouse keepers of Aonoch Mhor, next time, ‘Just gonnae
no’?
From a less than fragrant Glasgow,
N
No comments:
Post a Comment