Sniffer

Some time ago I had a great little habit. When I sat down in someone’s front room I purposely picked at the skin at the bottom of my feet and flicked it across the room.

It was either that or I would spend much of my visit rubbing my foot on their carpet. The skin was coming off one way or another.

After a hearty meal I picked at the food that remained in my beard. It was satisfying to say the least.

My habits had got the better of me. When eating at someone’s home I wiped my hands on the side of their brand new cream sofa. They said nothing.

When I visited their bathroom I splashed the water everywhere and left tissue on the floor. Why I left tissue on the floor I have no idea? I am not even sure if I used the tissue?

Leaving some sort of evidence was necessary. I realised that I could do anything I wanted but the crème de la crème was still to come.

This moment of sheer beauty made many a grown man weep.

As I stood-up I scratched my lower back area (okay further down than that!) with my index finger and then sniffed it. Why I sniffed it I have no idea but this was an involuntarily reaction.

It became my crowning glory.

I liked to scratch in places and sniff my finger. The armpit was a favourite of mine. Without the sniff my life wasn’t complete.

Having completed the sniff it was important to shake someone’s hand. Many people are so polite they can’t refuse to shake your hand.

My wife she was better than I was. She was a beautiful woman once…but now she simply wanted to let the world know of her power.

Having completed several ‘sniffs’ she decided to do something that not only shocked her host but made me look like a novice.

In mid-conversation, whilst in the kitchen of her best friend’s home she decided to sample the evening meal by dipping her ‘sniffer’ finger into the curry pot…Darling, food never tasted better.