There's this man, who drives a bus. Let's call him the bus driver. Anyway it's a bus that I have to use to get around work and he's one of the regular drivers. He's a nice man, very friendly and polite, a gentleman. He's one of the people in the world that can put a smile on your face because you know that when he greets you that he's doing it sincerely and genuinely.
But there's a problem. He loves to shake hands with people. A warm handshake, not only with one hand, but with the other clasped around the back of your hand in a very welcoming way onto his little bus. That's not the problem though. The problem is his hands smell. They smell like they've been doused in aftershave overnight and then sprayed with some more just to make sure they still have that eye-wateringly strong aroma.
So what's the problem with that you may ask yourself? Perhaps he gets up in the morning, has a shave, then pours some Brut into his hands and rubs liberally on his freshly scraped face, it's what lots of men do. (I don't know if his face smells, thankfully, so I can't confirm or deny that) The man has a sense of hygiene, he's always smartly turned out, surely I can't knock him for that? What's the big issue?
So I just wander into work, sit down and get going for the day. Then it happens. I put my hand near my face, perhaps resting my head in the palm and I can smell him. He's invaded my day! He's invaded my nose, he's with me at work, my hands even smell of him. This is not acceptable to me. I begin to think that everything I've touched previously will smell of him, my pen, the mouse (I keep a little mouse in my pocket and stroke him every now and then, it makes me feel big and powerful). It's not even nice aftershave, it smells like he concocted it from cheap household cleaning products from Lidl. Even Cillit Bang (Barry Scott's favourite aftershave) would be an improvement. So off I traipse to the toilet and scrub the bastards until there is no trace of the repugnant stench left.
Afterwards I start to resent the bus driver. I feel that he's upset my day by invading my personal space. It's not that I mind shaking his hand, that's just polite. It's the that he then proceeds to follow me around, on my hands no less, until I wash him off. Also he's got very rough skin on his hands, no wonder if the aftershave he uses can also be used to descale toilets! So now when I'm walking towards the bus and I see his face gurning out of the window like a fish in a tank full of turgid bleach I think 'ah fuck, it's old stinky hands'. I imagine sitting in the bus with my skin withering away slowly, unable to touch anything in case there's a sudden onset of leprosy and my epidermis departs my person in one large hand-shaped scab. I get phobic about walking to the bus in case he's there and starts beaming out of the window at me, ready to infect me with his aromatic AIDS.
Then I feel guilty. The bus driver is a nice man, he only wants to make friends and make people happy. Sometimes his kind words are the only kind words I hear all day and here's me hating him because of his rough skin and refusal to use a spray on aftershave or at least one that doesn't have the same effects as Sarin.
I'm trying to think of a logical ending to this little saga.
Maybe it's that no matter how nice you are, you'll never please everyone.
Maybe it's don't befriend bus drivers.
Or maybe it's subliminal advertising for a company which produces hand sanitising gels.
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