As I was jogging along around Clapham common (fear not, this is a bi-annual event, I am staunchly lazy as a rule) the other week, I was suddenly transported to my youth. No, I didn’t come across young boys, muddy-kneed and being yelled at by a sweaty gym master, nor did I feel once again the pain of that first rejection by a member of the opposite sex, dejected and alone at the local youth centre disco, shoe shuffling to my own miserable rhythms whilst the love of my life esther noble snogged my best mate mike sawyer.
No. Nonononono. This particular transportation was a smell-e-portation. And it wasn’t borgonvilia cascading down a trellis fence, or fresh rosemary rising from a freshly milled border. It was that acrid, vinegary-sweet smell that I’ve never identified, but read about once in Michael Frayn’s Spies. It is horrible, it makes me feel sick, and always did when I walked past it on the way to school. And there I was, a wave of nausea rushing over me, and I was a ten-year-old boy again, gagging and trying to hold my breath.
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