THE KICKER: LAST MONDAY, I spent the day working in a bustling indoor environment, one which was well-heated and filled to the brim with people dodging around the many glowing industrial lamps, clutching hot drinks.
Along with that, the work required constant movement and concentration and by the time you notice that there is a problem with all of this, it's too late. No deodorant. This was the first occasion in ages that I had been made to get up at 6.30am, and in the traumatic pre-dawn murk I had plain forgot. By noon, something had to give.
I should point out at this juncture that I don't think I'm a particularly pungent person, but I am neurotic, and once the notion of my smelling bad had ignited, I was finished. During the allotted 30 minutes of lunch, I made my excuses and ran off to case the neighbourhood for chemists. I finally found one, and after scanning the shelves, it became clear to me that this was a mom-and-pop operation of the kind that has been crushed mercilessly by the superchemists dominating our high street.
Generally, I'm all for mom and pop, but small and personal has some drawbacks, such as a lack of variety. This place had a limited selection of men's hygiene products, and as I can't wear spray deodorant, the already minuscule range was reduced by another half - there was one I could buy. The brand in question was French-sounding, and normally associated with women's products, but it was clearly men's deodorant, albeit hideously expensive, in a depressingly tiny bottle - more money than scent. One would have to be desperate to pay so much for so little, but one was desperate. I slapped down the notes, grabbed the receipt and left the shop.
Walking back to work, I had a little sniff and realised there and then that the deodorant was unperfumed. Normally, I don't have that teenage boy preference for hideously sweet and pervasive smells, but today was different. Figuratively speaking, the horse had already bolted, and an unscented deodorant would be too little, too late. I was in the market for a masking agent. By now, the chemist was 500 yards back and I was late for work, and perspiring all the more for the added tension. As I half-ran down the street, I saw the neon green cross of another chemist in the distance, on the way back to work. How had I missed it? A mega-chemist - a deodorant festival - had opened in the last half an hour.
Inside was a white labyrinth of tiny wax, rubber, steel and cotton-wool devices; pluckers, tweezers, wads and suction cups built to crush the uprising of human nature. I found the men's section and, incredibly, only two options were available. The first was the non-perfumed roll-on currently residing expensively in my own pocket.
The second was the perfumed version of the very same brand. Staring covetously at the word "perfumed" on the back of the bottle I didn't own, the notion of stealing this version off the shelves and replacing it with the non-perfumed one in my pocket gained traction. It would be a victimless crime! I noticed a security camera and the thieving urge subsided.
I took the perfumed bottle to the counter and paid for it, irritated that I was buying two hideously expensive bottles of deodorant when all I had wanted was one cheap bottle. I brushed aside the offer of another receipt, leaving it on the counter (all these receipts - what a waste!) I was now really quite late for work. Outside, I felt the two bottles of deodorant clinking in my pocket, thought of those who were at this very point darning socks, reversing shirt collars and eating leftovers, and was overcome with the hot shame of an over-extender in the age of credit crunch.
The first chemist was too far back up the road to countenance walking back and showing my receipt for a refund, but buying two bottles was just ridiculous. I went back in to chemist number two, brandishing the unperfumed bottle from shop number one in my hand. I would just stride to the counter, show the unperfumed bottle and claim that I had bought it there and had changed my mind. I no longer wanted to deodorise myself in an unperfumed manner - it had all been a horrible mistake. No, I didn't have my receipt, but I was here a mere two minutes ago. Surely she remembered me.
Oh she remembered me, all right. Not only did she remember me, but she remembered that I had bought the perfumed version from her, and not only that, but when I ploughed on, summoning false ire to go with my new perspiration and hot embarrassment, she produced my discarded receipt which clearly stated that the bottle she had sold me 90 seconds before was perfumed, and not the unperfumed one I had shown her. She didn't question the fact that I also had the very same brand - but unperfumed - in my my possession, and I have to admit that in this respect, she was brassy and kind of a genius.
Embarrassment brings forth strange, unconscious reactions. As she stood me down, all right to my wrong, I began to congratulate her on her presence of mind. From nowhere, I took on the role of mystery shopper, someone sent around the nation's chemists to gauge competence levels among the workers. "That's right - that's exactly right!" I exclaimed. "You got it! Well done!" After congratulating her some more, I left, bemused with myself. What the hell was that? Walking back to work, I found myself believing very much in my new role. She would keep her job.
Her bosses - and mine - would be very happy with this.