stinky

I found myself thrust upon the horns of a dilemma on the bus home after dinner the other night. The bus stank of sweaty teenage boys and BO that had triumphed despite Lynx’s most valiant efforts. On the other hand, after a meal at the Garlic Restaurant, my breath presumably stank too.

And so a challenging question of civic consciousness arose – should I breathe through my mouth or nose? The former would spare me the olfactory assault of Eau de Adolescence, but the latter would spare my surrounding passengers the feeling of sizzling in a wok while awaiting the addition of pak choy and oyster sauce.

I eventually decided in favour of the former. We were all just ingredients in an armpit stew anyway.