The Queue

Imagine yourself in the Post Office queue.

You are third from the front and at present all three windows are occupied by customers who are overloaded with letters, parcels, vehicle tax payments and, in one case, just being plain cantankerous and obstinate. 

As far as you are concerned, you are third ... and last ... in the queue because, as everyone who has ever stood in a queue knows, you never look behind you to see if anyone is there.

Imagine yourself drifting into a daydream brought on by the tedium of waiting and the lure of Mediterranean holidays advertised by the posters in the neighbouring travel agent window.

There is a noise.

It goes "Paaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrp!"

The two ladies in front of you shuffle as far forward as discretion allows and you follow, almost as if you are glued to their backs.  Halfway glances over their shoulders signal their disgust at you, because it certainly wasn't them, for that disgusting noise and, the soon to be expected odour.

A surreptitious glance over your own shoulder reveals and old man with a hearing aid wearing a grey herringbone patterned jacket and flat cap standing just behind you.  Behind him is a tall bearded man wearing a long black coat. He's wearing a beret, of all things, on his head.  Immediately you know one of them is the culprit.

At the head of the queue the little old lady shuffles her feet an negotiates a dainty looking handkerchief towards her nose.  She is wearing a yellow and white knitted hat with a butterfly brooch pinned to it and a long green coat.

She looks remarkably like a short, fat sunflower.

The woman behind her, and in front of you ... remember, we are imagining that this is happening to you ... is a woman dressed in Goth clothing.  She is wearing a studded dog collar around her neck and her overall appearance would seem to indicate that she is already more than well acquainted with a number of different odours relating to dead things. The coming 'fog' shouldn't cause her any problems.

Both of these ladies though are doing their level best to keep well away from you.

Silently you protest your innocence and try to distance yourself from the real culprit behind you.

Then it arrives.

It is an odour that can only be described as green with a hint of baby poo and cabbage.

It creeps along the queue causing sets of eyeballs, one pair after the other, to water.  It unblocks noses, unfortunately, and is capable of penetrating the thickest of old-lady moustaches causing an overwhelming feeling of nausea and dizziness.

And the queue shows no sign of moving forward.

The 'Queuers' mentality is such that nothing will make him/her give up their place in the queue.  Come Hell or high water, or in this case, stink or high water, their position in the queue is sacred and will never be sacrificed.

So, because you (we are still imagining here) were too stubborn to leave and get out of the way of that smell, it has permeated your clothing, layered itself on your skin and has taken the shine out of your hair.

And the worst thing ...

... that smell is going with you for the next hour or so, no matter where you go!

And you are no nearer to discovering who really did it!