You walk into the room,

graceful as a swan,

seductive as the swish of Princess Margaret’s Gin and It,

poolside, ’75,

Mustique.

 

It takes a few seconds

to properly sink in

as you waltz across the carpet looking devilishly fit,

sit down, start to frown.

Spritz.

 

Half a minute later,

your scent seeks me out.

Tiny dainty molecules begin to coat my lungs.

Jesus fucking wept!

What is THAT?

 

Half a minute more.

I’m trying not to roar at you

for ruining my morning with your nauseating spray.

It’s bogging-well malodorous,

you smell like rotting walrus

mixed with diabetic piss

and faecal pus.

 

This breaches health and safety!

We need new legislation.

A Smellibel Level and an

Anti-Social Nasal Order

for those who stink of Lynx

and think of no one but themselves

the filthy cunts.

 

"Excuse me Madam, there’s no fragrance allowed in here"

 

 

(because apparently, it is National Fragrance Day. Bleurgh)