Next will pay rachael if you order a catalogue
help a young author out
Why Do They Always Have to Sit Next to Me?
(August 2002)
By
RACHAEL AJAO
After a long day at work I sometimes like to walk the extra half a mile from Old Street Tube station down to the bus stop at Liverpool St, and catch the 47 bus back to Deptford. This is often preferable to squeezing underneath someone’s armpit on the tube. I like to take the bus occasionally, even though it takes longer, so that I can look out of the window, forget my day for the duration of the journey and appreciate some of the sights of London that we so often take for granted. Sights such as Tower bridge by night, and the little things like the decorations in the Christmas shop, where it is forever the season of loving and giving; and the crazy little old woman standing alone halfway down Tooley Street, wearing about three jumpers and a hat, even though it’s 20 degrees in the shade.
Taking in all these sights helps me to switch off from my working day and escape to a dream-like state for the duration of my journey home, but there’s always someone who decides to invade my personal space, forcing me to break my reverie with their presence. Today it’s The Man in the Red T-Shirt. I am sitting where I can often be found: by the window downstairs at the back of the bus – a great place to sit as you can see everyone on the bus, and everything going on outside, but you don't have too far to go when you get to your stop.
The Man in the Red T-Shirt is sitting next to me, and as I write I am having to hold my breath and try to disguise my look of disgust. Why? Because The Man in The Red T-Shirt stinks. He’s a big man; he takes up almost twice the amount of space I do (and that’s an achievement, as I’m no Halle Berry) and his stench is wafting across the whole lower deck. The smell is indescribable. This man obviously hasn’t seen a bar of soap this side of the millennium and I don’t think it’s my place to tell him that he’s well overdue an appointment with a can of Right Guard.
Around halfway through my journey, The Man in the Red T-Shirt stands up. As he leans forward to press the button for his stop, I catch a glimpse of the sores on his stomach, and the wind blows his stench right up my nostrils, mocking my attempts to subtly avoid it. The only way I could escape the smell now would be if I was to hold my nose, and that would be far too obvious. A wave of nausea washes over me and I have to turn away, burying my head in my denim jacket, and hope that he doesn’t have much farther to go.
A moment later, the bus pulls up at the next stop and relief floods through me as The Man in The Red T-Shirt gets off the bus.
After a minute or so, I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the smells of the bus – a discarded Happy Meal, exhaust fumes and an expensive smelling perfume. I’m think the perfume is coming from the woman sitting two seats in front of me, wearing the pinstripe suit and clutching her briefcase so tight you’d think it was going to run away if she loosened her grip, but I can’t be too sure. Either way, it smells heavenly compared to the stench of the Man in The Red T-Shirt.
I unclench my shoulders and sit back to enjoy the rest of my journey home (what little of it there is left), with the same thought running through my head that does so every time I decide to take the bus – Why do they always have to sit next to me?
© Copyright 2002, RACHAEL AJAO. All rights reserved.
figleaves will pay rachael if you find a perfect bra for your size
help a young author out
