It isn’t the first time I’ve walked into the house and been not just confronted, but almost knocked backwards by the odour that permeated my nostrils.
By permeated, I mean clawed its way up my nose, permeated any and all membranes housed within my skull, and physically ravaged my brain.
I’m not talking about the standard pubescent smell; a unique offering that only those of teenage persuasion can emit from their bodies. Not even, as I’m led to beleive, the distinct smell that teenages of the male persuasion emanate.
(I’m fairly sure girls have a smell, too, I just don’t know if it’s the same, slighly differnet, better or worse.)
The teenage boy (and probably girl) smells fall into two categories; that of the shower-dodger, categorised by an overpowering body odour; the second is the well-showered, and whom are surrounded by fumes of a gag-inducing nature. I’m blessed with one of each, which I’m thinking is potentially