The aroma of the bus. I have never been able to identify it. Plastic seats soaked in decayed human sweat, a definite metal acidity and stale smoke?
But at six o’clock in the unearthly hours of 1973, it was easy. Smoke, nicotine and any other poison the manufacturer’s harbour in a cigarette was our flavour of the day.
The top deck accommodated a blue haze of contaminant as we, like lemmings, were herded towards the factories. Embassy, Players No6 and Park Drive for us young bucks. Whereas the older blokes preferred their trusted Woodbines and Senior Service. No one on our bus could afford Peter Stuyvesant.
I know I post the strangest of things but it is a smell I cannot erase from my memory. An old automobile has the same smell, have you noticed? I firmly believe it has something to do with plastic seats.
Apart from anything else whilst I am editing this little novel of mine I am reliving those early days in Bradford. I actually programme Youtube to 1970’s UK Hits. Luckily I have nearly finished because The Brotherhood of Man and the New Seekers are starting to make my ears bleed, the skinheads are getting up my nose and I’m frustrated by how many bloody ‘That’s’ I have written in some chapters.
I was considering watching Saturday Night, Sunday Morning but I feel I am probably morose enough without the contribution of Albert Finney. Oh well, my break is over, back to editing and ‘the good old days’ of lino instead of carpet, ice on the inside of the windows and biscuits in an old Quality Street tin.
Take care my special friends (That’s ‘special’ as in loved not ‘special’ as in mentally delinquent. OMG see there is another that) xx