Goodly grief! Yesterdays foraging foray for fruity buns of torture fled my mind, for said mind was filled with aromatherapical outrage!
Now, On Thursday, I went out to Pedros for a slap up nosh. Before feasting upon chicken & chili stack, there was quaffage at the Goats and Whorsie's.
During the consumption of inebriating beverage, the candyflossal perfumeries arising from The Xym resulted in this somewhat confusatory of compliments:
"You smell really pretty - like a hippy who's washed!"
Which is somewhat disconcerting! A hippy? Hippo, more like!
Anyhoo, following on from the fragrant flirtation, there's The Xym in the Waterstones, where a bevvy of babes are all a-gathered within the factual arena. From the gaggle of giggly girlyness comes another obscure odour reference.
"He smells like pickles!"
Hold up - from a pretty washed hippy to a somewhat Sarseny Xym! Unless the fug of Pedros has lodged in me barnet, and they're mistaking the mexican miasma for lime pickle. Or mistaking Mexican for Indian, and comparing XymStench to Eric Pickles.
So, it would seem my ambrosial aroma is a combination of a hippo and Eric 'Over-Rotund' Pickles.
If anything, judging my the trip to the Euromarket, I should be assailing the nostrils with a pomade of peppery
potato parfum, due to partaking of germanic BBQ side disheries.
And there was me thinking I smelled all full of Pretty pant-dampeningly aromatic allure.
Guess The Xym's just a sweaty ole hog!
