This means that the only way to keep the little buggers away is to either stop breathing completely or to utterly smother yourself in Avons very finest old lady juice from a squirty plastic bottle and going by the name of skin so soft. Which is the only thing known to man that does the job.
Midges hate it, they can't land on it without being stuck and die and they can't fly through the smell of it because it is so thick.
It's a strange thing to be standing in a pub full of very strong farm workers in scruffy jeans, dirty haired, rough hands from hard labour and listening to testosterone fueled conversations about football and beer and every one of the rough gravelly low voices smelling like someones grandmother.
I keep looking around to see if someone is going to pull out a screw on felt hat as they prepare to leave, perhaps fasten it in place with a couple of hat pins. Or maybe the juice will start to affect the brain and one of them will go to the bar and ask for a cup of tea and a fruit scone please.
The smell doesn't fit what my eyes are seeing, my nose is telling me I'm in an old peoples home or on a bus trip to Brighton but my eyes and ears are saying I'm in the George and Dragon.
There is a smell around the village and I'm sorry Nirvana but it doesn't smell like teen spirit.
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