Needs more Eigenharp

So I'm in Sushi Train, doin' my gurgitatin' thang, when the waitress seats a businesswoman next to me. Immediately, my nasal passages are assaulted by an awful sour smell. I look this lady over and she's well dressed, seems not to have come straight from the gym without showering, and is carrying a handbag, a gossip glossy and an iPhone set to "make an annoying noise every 20 seconds". And there's the acrid pong again. Wasting food is anathema to me, but I honestly consider ditching the rest of my karaage donburi and sprinting to the counter to settle the bill. Instead, I put my head down and switch from chopsticks to ceramic spoon in order to speed up the process. Every now and then, I'm cruelly lashed by another tendril of stink and - I kid you not - the intensity goes beyond eau de vagrant and into the realm of "unholy gas released when stray bolt of lightning cracks open marble doors of centuries-old crypt". I scoff my rice and narrowly escape before I become physically sick. Being crammed into the aisle of the 373 on the way home is bliss by comparison.

As someone who wouldn't dream of going anywhere public after work without spraying on extra deodorant and popping a breath mint, it blows my mind that a professional person could be so oblivious to their flower-wilting, wallpaper-peeling reek. On the other hand, if it so happens that the odour in question stemmed from a tragic medical condition, then I apologise to the unnamed woman and to baby Jesus for the preceding rant in its entirety.