One final story from the house of 'TV Holiday Camp' Electronics
Ever wondered what it would be like to be a dog? In some small part, myself and my fellow shop workers had a small glimpse of what it was like to be of the canine persuasion. This was achieved not with the use of stage hypnotism or hallucinogenic drugs. Once a fortnight or so, we would be able to smell like bloodhounds do, to be able to follow a person around by the scent they deposited in the air wherever they walked- many minutes after them walking down an aisle, we could tell when a person had been down there.

I say 'a' person. I mean 'one' person. Mister Tandy.

Mister Tandy was an electronics hobbyist and while not being noticeably insane, he was rather eccentric. He spoke a recognisable English that was flavoured heavily with what was probably a native African upbringing, and a complexion to match (what you could see of it)- not Afro-Carribean but just very African.

He was perpetually grumpy and somewhat aloof as if he were a man of great importance. Nevertheless, his shopping list of components were sensible and his money as good as anyone elses.

Did I mention the smell?

If smell was a cricket bat, Mr Tandy was the equivalent of that bat being smashed into your nostrils at the hands of Mike Gatting. And it wasn't hard to see why.

We've all coughed a retch at some unwashed, BO ridden builder who squeezes by an aisle at the supermarket and visits their stale sour aroma on all within a 3 foot radius but at least this was probably a result of picking up hods of bricks and 2 by 4 timbers.

Mister Tandy didn't work hard to acheive the effect of his own personal exclusion zone. He used to wear - on the sunniest and hottest of days - the same waterproof kagoul over a wooly jumper, the same wooly hat, the same tracksuit trousers (the nylon ones, mind) and gloves, and trainers. All the time. I do believe he slept in them. The man was a walking turkish bath that never got to the point where you shower off at the end. There was even one day when I saw him lever off a decaying, blackened tennis shoe to expose that he was wearing plastic bags over his socks, presumably to keep the perspiration from escaping.

It went beyond 'smells like wee' or 'smells like sweat' or 'smells like sour milk' and I don't want to think about the rest of the possibilities. He was like a walking biohazard, and the magnitude of the stink meant you just couldn't detect individual elements of the overall cacophany of odours- apart from perhaps an undertone of Zyklon-B liberally garnished with mustard gas and curried garlic.

Have you ever tried to reply courteously to a customers' enquiry while holding your breath for fear some of the foul stench might go into your lungs, or worse still, that you might be able to taste a hint of that well-matured sweatsock, a cavalcade of underarm mildew and yeast infection, at the back of your throat?

That experience in my life is probably the most defining example of me 'being professional and just doing my job in the face of outrageous adversity'.

He didn't seem to notice.

Bastard even complained that we didn't have any BC337s left and that he'd have to come back in a few days and get them when they came into stock. You've never seen a mail order delivery form punched into the till so quickly as I did that day. Still suffer from the stress fractures in my typing digits from that day when the weather gets cold....
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Tue 9 Sep 2008, 18:51, Reply)