She pulls on her collar, moves her head towards her shoulder and takes a breath in through her nose. I instantly recognise the manoeuvre. It's the "Is is me that smells a little funny?" check that we've probably all done at some point. There's nothing worse than ponging in public.
My sympathy goes out to her as she double checks. I think, if it is her then I hope she hasn't got far to go and that she isn't meeting anyone important. If it's not her, then it's probably just the normal day to day squalid stench of London's Underground network.
But my sympathies turn to confusion. Her hand disappears inside her top, her digits having a good rummage around her pit. I try not to stare, but the Curiosity Creature has a firm hold on my eyeballs. I hope my efforts at nonchalance don't attract her attention because I really want to know where this is going. Confusion turns to mild shock as she withdraws her hand and places it under her nose...and there's the inhale. She drops her hand by her side.
Did she just sniff her fingers, I think to myself? Surely not?
My confusion and mild shock are replaced with a gargantuan effort to stifle the biggest laugh known to man when she double, then treble checks her pinkies for any evidence of pong with ever increasing lungfuls of air.
I exit at the next stop, grateful that she didn't have an itchy butt crack.
