Carriage ride: Portsmouth to Chichester

The seven-fifteen onloading of passengers took place at Portsmouth.

It was a squeeze into the carriage. Heads bumped, elbows brushed other parts as posteriors were squished into sparingly stuffed seats – all of which might have been less inconvenient if these persons knew each other, alas, they did not. Not a one knew any other any more than a bar of soap…

Ah, but if only there were soap!

As the warmth of close proximity increased the carriage's temperature, so too developed the fragrance.

There was a salty sailor in his peacoat with brined crust, the odd fish scale still stuck to his beanie. Next to him, a smartly attired perfumed lawyer sat with bunched tight shoulders, who immediately absorbed himself with a newspaper. On the opposing bench seat, a ruddy-cheeked woman in a bonnet glared, flour dust at her temples and sweat stains at her armpits, her hands gripping tightly to her handbag. Finally, next to the woman, slouched a raw-knuckled beast of a chap with a red bandana tied around his neck, who now tipped his straw hat down over his eyes and swiftly appeared to go to sleep.

This fragrant mix of folk, this melting pot, each avoided the other gaze lest compelled by polite conventions to talk. However, as the warmth and fragrance grew, there became one unifying and horrifying realisation: some, One of them had stepped in dog poo!

It would be an interminably long trip unless one of these stiff upper lips said something.




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