For most of my life my great-grandmother was as wrinkly, leathery and liver-spotted as George Hamilton's ballsack
That is to say she was old when I was born and just kept getting older (as is the way with our species). She developed the kind of curved spine that meant her chin bobbed along level with her waist and a pair of googly-eyes and a black cloak would get her a role in Young Frankenstein.

With her increasing old age came dementia and a roll call of names recited before she made it to the right one when greeting family members ("Oh hello John, George, Callum, Paul er Frank"). It was difficult to watch the woman that taught me how to play scrabble (and not in the competitive sense, I'd get a fair scolding if I wasn't making an effort to open up the board. The fun for her was both players filling the board and getting rid of all our letters) go downhill over the years and be reduced to a burden.

After finishing university I went to live with them for a while. This is when I started to notice a not too pleasant odour from my Great Grandmother that no amount of Alyssa Ashley Musk could mask. My grandmother, who did most of the care work, confirmed there were no unwiped tagnuts or fingernail deposits to blame, her clothes were washed but stank of musty farts.

In the end, and without enough sense to employ some Walter White-style prep, I made the trip into Mordor her room to investigate. And here the smell intensified. Oh did it fucking intensify. Had I a bunch of flowers in one hand and a canary in a cage in the other one would have comically wilted whilst the other toppled of its' perch with X's for eyes. Ground zero smelt to be the large solid wood antique wardrobe in the corner. I gripped the handle, mentally preparing for a helldog roaring "Zuuuuulll" at me, and opened the door. There, stacked like pyramid bricks, were about a months worth of decaying great-granny shits wrapped in flowery kitchen roll. Like a self-sacrificing movie grunt I threw myself on the grenade (did the curve-jumper-into-a-makeshift-bag thing and swiped the lot into it) and ran in heroic slo-mo through the house, skittling old folk left and right, till I made it outside to the bin.

In that final moment, when instinct took over, I was not immune to the smell. I remember the smell. I don't think I could ever forget that smell. I'm a reasonable guy. But, in that moment, I experienced a very unreasonable smell.
( Bill Clay a.k.a. Claudio, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 1:56, 1 reply)

I'd say
The final paragraph of this needs work. It needs a punchline.
(Nitrous Nitrous, Sat 18 Jan 2014, 10:25, closed)