Olfactory girl

I know what my superpower would be, if I suddenly mutated and joined the ranks of Clare Bennet and Jonothon Starsmore. I would have an extraordinary sense of smell.

Actually, it seems to be rather excellent even without a mutant gene. I can often sniff out stuff nobody else can. Now, you would think that this is a gift. But I am not so sure.

It may be that cinnamon buns smell extra cinnamony to me, or that lilies reach me from further away. But somehow, there seems to be four loathsome smells to every lovely scent, and as I gag or cringe at disgusting odours floating by, I certainly wish I were happily unaware of them.

Yesterday, I was under siege, in my own home. In the writing room, the rascal ballerina had visited her litter box with a runny tummy (I cleaned it out, of course, but the smell!). In the kitchen, the dishwasher exhaled a certain nauseating breath it sometimes cooks up when washing eggy stuff. In the living room, a faint stench of ashtray rose up from the cigarette smoking neighbours' and entered through the woodstove. And in the bathroom, there was a smell of bogs and rotting soccer shoes emanating from the pipes that had been clogged.

I escaped to the veranda, and at that point, I tell you, I wouldn't have minded if my nose just fell off, or closed up for good. Nostrils aren't that pretty anyway. But then, a whiff of something delicious turned the corner, heroically rising through the chill air to reach my outdoor refuge: The smell of coffee beans roasting at Tim Wendelboe's.

Ok, nose. You can stay.