No Science Museum this week. Apparently Queen Elizabeth II wouldn’t like the way I dressed. Nothing to do with the quality of my work or the fact that I do it all for nothing. No, regardless of what the other normal human beings I work with think, the Queen has a problem with jeans, t-shirt and shirt over the top.
The reason the Queen was concerned with my work outfit was because she was at the museum to open the new Information Age gallery today. I wasn’t that bothered and, frankly, wasn’t keen on what she’d be wearing anyway.
So, rather than having yet another historically insignificant blog post about some forgotten engineer/shipbuilder/model maker, this post will be even more dull.
I decided to go into Canary Wharf and clean the flat, given that Mirinda was working from home. What I didn’t realise was that Mirinda has been experimenting with genetic modification.
When I arrived at the flat, as usual, I opened the big window to get some fresh air. When I turned back into the flat, a smell hit me. It wasn’t pleasant. However, the corridors of the flats ooze evil cooking smells and I thought it was someone cooking something foul in a neighbouring flat. I went into the bathroom.
A few lightbulbs had died so I figured I’d go and buy replacements before I started any deep cleansing. Of course, the nearest lightbulbs of the type I needed were about a mile away, buried deep under ground, within the Canary Wharf complex. Fortunately, I knew this and just headed straight for Robert Dyas.
On the way back I stopped at Paul to pick up something delicious for lunch.
Back at the flat, the odour was still lingering but I thought nothing of it and sat and ate my baguette while watching a snatch of something on the TV. Replete, I started.
The bathroom was first and I left it sparkling (with all bulbs now blazing) and moved into the bedroom. This was soon once more habitable. Next the kitchen. Then it struck me. Well, to be honest, it struck my nose.
A small white plastic bag, securely tied at the top was almost calling me to sniff it. It was far too compelling to resist. After the small but defining sniff, I recoiled, gasping for air, reaching for something solid to prevent any fainting. The evil smell was emanating from the bag. I could almost hear Vincent Price beseeching me from within. “Help me…help me!”
Using a barge pole, I managed to manoeuvre the bag and it’s evil contents out of the kitchen and into the corridor. It fought me, valiantly, but I persevered and soon had it in the lift. Fortunately, I rode down to the ground floor alone.
Eventually, I hefted it into one of the big bins downstairs, watching helplessly as all the other rubbish in it leapt out, trying to find somewhere out of its reach. I slammed the door and went back upstairs. And the smell was gone.
I don’t know what it was and I never want to know. It was enough that I moved it elsewhere. I had a fleeting sense of regret for the poor person who next enters the garbage room. It was very fleeting being replaced almost immediately by an overwhelming sense of nasal relief.
Later, when quizzed, Mirinda said it was her friend.
Anyway, that was all the drama. I finished cleaning then left for the return trip home, happy in the knowledge that another failed experiment had been disposed of for the good of humanity.
I bet Elizabeth R has never smelled anything quite like it.