A Bit About Noses

Sometimes I wonder whether I should write a specific post. This is one of those cases in point. It will tell you a bit about me that I'm dubious about putting out for all to know, well all who read here anyway. But, I'm half convinced that all I'm going to confess is that I do something that we all do, which of course means that I'm half convinced that I'm going to confess to doing something that we don't all do.

It's not like having a crafty sherman or farting, things that we all do in varying degrees and with differing levels of showmanship. I'm still baffled by one of most men's eternal questions; what to do when I've dropped a good smelly one and am likely to encounter another person who'll smell it. Is it best to exit the crime scene and get away quickly or is it best to hang around to limit the odour spread but effectively confess my crime to anyone who may casually stroll into the area?

No it's not about that, it's about nose picking. I do it. Not professionally, nor am I even an enthusiastic amateur. I just indulge on the odd occasion, I guess my habit would be classed as "recreational", usually kicked off by that familiar feeling of being alone and knowing there's a bogey waiting to be picked and removed.

Isn't it a weird thing that we all look at people when they're in their car having a good nose furrow with a sense of disgust, yet I bet we've all done it at times. I was sitting in my car at some traffic lights recently and caught sight of the fellow in the car in front doing some seriously deep excavation work. What's going on in our minds when our desire to stick a digit up the nose and dig stuff out is far greater than our common sense? We're sitting in a public street surrounded by windows. The only passers by that might not catch a glimpse of what we're doing are those that might be in a plane overhead. All others can just stare and shake their head in dismay and disgust.

We must momentarily forget ourselves and get blinded by the transient nature of cars. We can drive away from the crime scene and pretend that it never happened taking the evidence with us, or eating it as many do.

Do women pick their nose? I'm not really sure, but I'm hoping for answers. I can't remember a time when I've seen a woman sitting casually in traffic with a finger stuck up her nose but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

This post was prompted by the concept of nasal hair. For some weeks I've been wrestling with a particularly robust bunch of about three of the chaps dangling from my left nostril. I'm lucky enough to be the proud owner of one of the greatest inventions man has made; an electric nasal hair trimmer, one of the ones with a "soft to the touch" feel no less. Every couple of months I get it out, remembering that I really should buy some new batteries for it, and steam in.

The almost dead batteries mean that nasal hair trimming is now a sado masochistic sport round my way. With fresh batteries the hairs would be plucked into oblivion with a quick zip and a flourish. I'd feel nothing, except for the satisfaction when I crinkle my nose and marvel at the smoothness of its insides.

With fully dead batteries I'd feel no joy and also get no hair removal, which would of course negate the exercise. But with half dead batteries I get a lovely and delicious mix of the two extremes. The hair is removed. Eventually. Every now and again I feel a pang of ouchness as the hair is plucked a little bit too slowly from its root and it feels like my nose is about to be turned inside out.

But the battle against the little group of hairs continues. It feels like there's a force pushing these hairs through my nose every time one is cut. No sooner have I managed to get rid of one or all of them than I look in a mirror and see that they're back, poking out as if they're a set of World War One rabbits looking out of their holes about to be shot. As soon as they're shot another set of rabbits pops up. I suppose I mean hares there.

I figure that this might be a getting older thing, that the hairs become more resistant to attack, which would explain why old men always have big bushes of hair spouting from their nose and ears. I might have to get an industrial strength trimmer or take really drastic measures like buying new batteries.

I'll keep you informed on my progress. A bit of a ramble was this post really, at least I can relax safely in the knowledge that it won't be grabbed by some unscrupulous Sunday Newspaper and published.