The Unexpected Trump.
We all know the ones, you’re taken unawares and, almost before you’ve even registered that you have to … go … it has already gone. Gone out into the ether, potentially polluting your immediate atmosphere with methane, sulphur and all the other ingredients that combine to make that particularly unmistakeable aroma.
But, imagine that’s happened in the office – and this has, of course, NEVER HAPPENED – and you have no way of knowing how bad (or not) what you’ve just unleashed actually smells. What do you do, when you can not only NOT smell yourself, but you can't smell anything you produce, either?
Sink lower into your seat, and feign complete innocence?Walk away, potentially leaving a little whiffy gift for whoever remains behind?
Apologise to your compadres and wish silently for death from utter humiliation (comes complete with risk of, if it is not a smelly boff, drawing attention your botty burp without needing to)?
or (my own personal favourite):
Wait for someone to mention it, then deny, deny, deny all knowledge. (I would occasionally add a further fillip with the “smelt it/dealt it” axiom when challenged? IF, of course, this had ever happened. Which it hasn’t. Ever.)
Man, I never realised I’d miss the smell of farts when this condition started. Or why. This is a blog post I never thought I’d write. Share with me your coping strategies!
What I think dysosmics need right now is a charcoal pad for special occasions that monitors potential whiffs and gives a reading of:
“Fine – stay put/Deny if challenged”“Apologise”
“Blame the dog/cat/boss/office nemesis”
“Run. Run quite fast”
“Resign/leave the country/change your name immediately”.
Any takers? Odour Eaters, I’m assuming you have the technology.