The desk opposite me was empty, as my boss came to sit next to me, screwing up her nose as she did. It smelt. Not the kind of smell that jabs your nostrils violently, but the more subtle and un-delightful eggy kind, that lingers and loiters in the background.
My boss soon moved and whispered into a colleagues ear. The sound of two people trying not to be heard could barely be drowned out by the sporadic clicks of mice. I smell. There was no one else it could have been round there. I stare at my screen but can't think about Excel.
I'm leaking sewage. Everyone knows. My garments amplify my odours. They all talk about it when I'm at lunch. My holes are valveless. It's what they think about when I talk about clients. I can't look after myself. It's what they all smell when I talk to them about bookings.
Then everyone talked at once. All the voices were hissing over each other. They all tried not at look at me, so that I couldn't guess who they were talking about. Noses held, arms wafting and air freshener pumped. Aria brought in an egg sandwich for lunch and people are asking her to put it in the fridge. I closed the google search for incontinence with quite a lot of relief (but not too much, thank God).
You have just read my 14th blog post of all time, entitled Paranoid Panda-Void