Carol’s Column

Sometimes it helps to make a real stink

The thing about a noxious odour is that often, instead of just fading away, it increases in graveolence and what starts as a hint of a stink becomes a full-blown pong.

Some smells offend those with oversensitive snouts such as the waft of an unwashed armpit, the aroma of a feculent pig, the fragrance of a well-filled nappy – these dubious perfumes have been known to cause nostril-spasm. Personally, none of the above worry me in the least.

My proboscis shrinks at the reek of an over-perfumed person or the sniff of a heavily disinfected hospital ward, yet it glows at the bouquet of a ripened camembert or the whiff of newly-shampooed dog fur.

I thought the two worst smells around were the stench of a dead rat forever imprisoned beneath floorboards or the foulness of a rotting carcass at a kill in a game reserve. That was until Sunday.

On this particular day I decided that instead of a lekker braai with fat-dripping chops grilled to crunchy perfection and butter-drenched baked potatoes, I'd cook healthy, cholesterol-free fish.

So I popped into our local well-known store and selected a packet of sealed hake fillets "not frozen to ensure the freshest taste imaginable" said the wording on the packet (well, I forget the exact words, but that's what they implied).

On arrival home, I placed the corner of the plastic bag of sealed hake fillets "not frozen to ensure the freshest taste imaginable" in my mouth and ripped it open with my fangs. And almost passed out from the smell of foul, fetid, vrot fish.

Trust me, the most stinky pig manure smells like delicate lavender compared to the vapours that burst forth from this plastic piscatorial package.

A lazy consumer, I've always been slack about returning perishables that have perished. Too much effort and too much time wasted I've always thought.

Not on this occasion. I rewrapped the fish, returned to the well-known store and found the food manager, a personable young man labelled Gary.

"No problem, take another," he smiled.

"I think I'll pass on the fish and go for the money," I replied attempting to hand him the hake.

He declined. "You have to return it to customer services upstairs for a refund."

"But this is food," I protested.

"That is store policy," he retorted. "Policy is policy."

So upstairs the fish and I trotted to discover a long queue of people returning sundry items of ill-fitting clothing.

"Excuse me," I said politely to a uniform.

"Wait your turn," she snapped. The whole thing seemed absurd. Would they hang the dratted fish between the skirts and shirts?

I opened a small corner of the bag in which rested the hake remains and everyone sniffed and shuffled in embarrassment as people do when someone in a crowd emits a malodorous gaseous wind.

Sometimes action speaks louder than words so I stepped to the counter. "I have a problem," I said.

"Too many baked beans," shouted one wit. Dramatically I bared the pungent hake.

It took precisely three seconds for the queue to disperse, four seconds for the assistant to be revived from her faint and five seconds for my money to be refunded.

"So what," I asked, "will happen to the hake?"

"It will go down to food where it belongs. Why you bring it up here?" said the assistant.

"Food said it was policy and policy is policy," I murmured.

"Bleddy stupid. Sometimes I think they got their brains in their arses!" she exclaimed.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

■