For a while now I have been car-sharing. It is a way of getting to work whilst cutting down on costs. It saves me and my fellow care-sharers small fortunes at the end of the month and gves us time chat. The last bit is not always true.
My car-sharing adventures started with a bloke who has since been secretively entitled King Candy. It was a student’s name for him given out of fondness not malice.
His actual resemblance to King candy, whom I would not have previously known from Adam, is striking. Adam, let’s call him Adam, is a buffly, snuffly sort of bloke who always carries a handkerchief with him in order to allow a clearing of the nasal passages as soon as he gets into a vehicle. He is constantly suffering from a cold and frequently recounts the months he has lived with it; some marriages are shorter. Adam, or King as we know him, is in charge of rather dull delivery which means that even if he was talking about kinky sex he would make it seem tedious. He also muffles his words which makes for an excuse to let them disappear into the rest of the car.
He also farts, quietly but effectively, usually as he is blowing his nose.
Our third sharer (sounds strange) is a guy called Stephan, a rather reserved ex-professional sportsman who tends to sit quietly soaking in the buffling banter that is eminating from the King. Occasionally I have wanted to catch his eye when Candy-sweet odours have reached my nose.
But diplomacy demands otherwise.