Yesterday i was called strange by the mrs for saying i like the smell of a butchers shop.
Aparrently i’m an axe murder waiting for my next victim when in truth they remind me of sausage rolls as a kid.
The house when you come back from two weeks holiday.
That pile of sweat soaked mud encrusted cycling kit that’s been sitting on the laundry floor since yesterday.
The ash in the bottom of the BBQ the next morning.
2 stroke fumes mixed with burnt out clutches, pine needles, Welsh bogs and dead sheep.
1000 sweaty ravers, Vicks vapour rub and weed.
These days it’s just the smell of new tyres and my own shit after a mega curry…