I gymed this morning for the first time in a shameful number of weeks. I blame the house move, but was still surprised at how hard going I found it.

Nonetheless, I got that post gym buzz that makes you do stupid things. The first stupid thing was to get on a horribly crowded train and sit on the floor for two stops. I gave up when we got to Shenfield and switched to the one behind it.

That was stupid, as it ended up getting stuck at Chadwell Heath. Someone had flung themselves under a train somewhere up the line and everything had been halted while the ambulancers walked up and down the line trying to remember the words to that ‘leg bone’s connected to the whatever’ song as they hunted for the bits.

So, risking marauding gangs of East Londonders I got off and walked through the broken streets of Redbridge in search of a bus. I’m reckoning I’ve not been there since I was 21. Ten years ago. Now there’s a scary thought. Anyhow, I found one by means of trial and error, and took a seat on the top deck.

I was determined to get to work on time.

Of course, with no trains running things quickly filled up, and about three stops down the line I shifted over one space so the woman who had sidled up beside me could sit down.

Stupid stupid STUPID!

It took about five minutes for me to notice a rather tangy smell, and five seconds more to disregard it.

And five minutes later it was back. Stronger this time.

And familiar.

I ignored it and tried to concentrate on my book.

But hang on - was I right in thinking things were starting to feel distinctly wet down below?

Sniff sniff.

And then, with a sinking heart, I knew what had happened. I slipped my hand down onto the crease of the seat behind me and it slid uncomfortably into a horribly familiar damp, warm grit. And I knew at once what that tangy smell must be.

It was a smell of childhood. Or of Friday nights on the train in the run-up to Christmas. Or of hospitals and old peoples’ homes.

Or of uncooked parmesan cheese.

Someone had been sick on the seat.

Ugh. Bleurgh. Ach.

It was no good. I couldn’t concentrate on the book any more. Now that I knew what it was, the smell just got stronger and stronger. It worked its way into the weave of my trousers, and whether it was psychological or not, I don’t know, but all the time my legs just felt wetter, and warmer, and far more unpleasant.

‘It’s OK,’ I told myself. ‘I can sit it out until the end of the line.’ But as we rolled into Ilford, half a lifetime later, I spotted the shops and dashed into a store in The Exchange for a new pair of trousers. I put them on there and then, and walked out with them flapping about my legs.

That was less stupid. It’s so long since I’ve bought new clothes, and it’s been so many weeks since I last saw the gym that I thought I’d perhaps have put on some weight. So I bought a 32in waist.

But they’re far too big, and held up only by virtue of my belt and weaker than average gravity.

So that’s nice. I’m still a 30in waist at the most. Who needs the gym?

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll give it a miss…

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