Skankiness.
Where to begin?

Up north, that’s where. Working in a welfare rights place during the 80s on a government scheme I had a colleague whose very left wing politics seemed to include the theory that you didn’t need to wash yourself or your clothes (perhaps he was waiting until Labour got back in, in which case there was another 12 years or so to go.) His unmistakeable scent spread to his chair which, as it was next to a window, would hum revoltingly disseminating the unmistakeable stench of sweaty unwashed arse around the office. Trouble was he was a lovely bloke. I left before he did and wonder how long he went on smelling before anyone said anything.

Also up North, though not me but a friend. He got on to a bus with his mother who having become aware of an eye-watering smell announced to her son (my friend) 'Someone's got a cheese and onion pastie on here. It stinks. Fancy having one on a bus, it stinks of onions,' and so on and so on. Friend tried to shush her realising that it was not, in fact, the scent of pastie but rather the putrid, onion-flavoured aroma of hot, un-deoderized armpit. When quietly told this she wasn't in the least bit sorry and instead made loud remarks about dirty people which Friend wondered if he could squeeze himself out the miniscule gap between the window and the metalwork of the bus's bodywork.

My ex-boyfriend left me for a GIRL in another flat in the same building. She kept dead finches (she never fed anything she had as a pet except her cat and she used to kick that) in her wardrobe and dead mice in her filthy kitchen. She lived in that flat for over a year and didn’t change her bed sheet once during that time. It was rank, truly. He chose her over me and slept in that bed with that skanky cow. He was welcome to her.

A lady who works where I work now has a monthly problem where she smells of wee. This isn’t just any old wee - it’s ripe, matured, quality wee. Some of the girls suspect that this may be due to the infrequency of sanitary applications, about which I know very little. Her office has no ventilation as the only window in it is barred and permanently closed, plus she likes to have the heat on a great deal. Also I have to avert my eyes when she’s eating. To see her devour a scotch egg is to gaze into the maw of hell. Oh, and her pens are full of dribble - almost to a level where you could make one of those novelty pens where a boat or fish swims in a clear window from it - and any newcomer is warned to take their own pen with them should they have to go to the office for anything. I have flicked cold spittle from one up my arm in the past which was pretty revolting, but even that paled into insignificance when I absent-mindedly put one into my mouth. I thought I was going to throw up. Telling the horrific story later I almost made a colleague hurl. God knows what visitors think.

The Boss had to have a “word” with a customer who honked after complaints from the staff and customers (and bravely did so in his small office - he left the window open all afternoon afterwards, despite the arctic weather). He seems to have cleaned himself up and visits less (he would just come in and read, never buy anything) but one can only sympathise with poor Boss because now this man seems to think they’re mates and will corner him for long and boring chats.

Not as revolting as some, but I think they bear telling. There are more but they don’t come immediately to mind. If I remember them in time I’ll post about them.
(singingringingtree Living in the past., Sun 25 Mar 2007, 14:06, Reply)