It wasn’t me, Miss

Glory the lifts at work have pretty much become more contentious than the old dunoir.

The foyeh and her lifts currently reek of old sweat, opposed to that lovely new sweet smelling sweat, well you know what I mean - it’s stale, it’s pungent, it’s totally present and overpowering (no, that is not my cyberspace profile!).

I just enjoyed a spell in that den of malodour. My solo passage from the 7th floor to the ground was broken by the arrival of another passenger. She sniffed the air and then looked askance at me, or perhaps she caught her reflection in the lift's mirror. I swear that the only scent wafting from me is l’air du temps, perhaps with just a soupcon of vinegar. I didn’t pong out the lifts. Oh get. I didn’t. And with that I