Editor was busy clearing her desk and amongst the back issues, long expired discount vouchers and floppy discs, she discovered old bottle of Eternity perfume.

Sent to her several years ago by department store, in hope that its special promotion would get a mention and put aside with intention of keeping for self but forgotten about.

"Don't you wear this?" she said to me, indicating still packaged bottle.

"Only when I can afford it," I said, indicating monthly pay slip which had just landed in pigeon hole.

"Well, think of this as your bonus," she said, with usual unsubtle hint of sarcasm, handing me the bottle.

"Thank you very much," I said, slightly taken aback by uncharacteristic generosity.

"There's probably something wrong with it," said Sharon, editors long suffering PA, when I told her of uncharacteristic generosity. "Probably past its sell by date or something...."

Which turned out to be the case. But only by a couple of months and I reckoned there wasn't much that could go wrong with scent a couple of months past its sell by date, unless you were going to drink it or serve it up to important dinner guests.

Sharon though reckoned it might have lost its signature smell and smell of something else altogether.

So I squirted some on wrists to check. It seemed to smell OK.

"It smells like an old peoples home," said friend Mark when, a few hours later, I sit next to him on the train home.

Fortunately, it turned out he was referring to the newly scented St James tube station, as opposed to scent. "A mixture of disinfectant and urine."

London Underground had decided the way to appease passengers, frustrated by lack of trains and having to stand with their noses pressed to someone else's sweaty armpit, is to give them something else to sniff at and have been spraying the platform of St James at night with scent (probably not Eternity) in hope that their faltering system will come up smelling of roses.

"I think it smells of carbolic soap," said Andrea, who had also come up through St. James. "It's quite nice really."

"Well, I don't really mind the smell of the platform," said Mark. "That whiff of singed air mixed with axle grease is as it should be (once a boy with a toy train set, always a boy with a toy train set). It's the smell of the passengers I'm not so keen on. They ought to spray them with deodorant instead."

So while we were on the subject of smelly people, I decided to try my out of date perfume on Mark's highly sensitive nose.

"Does this smell all right to you?" I asked, proffering wrist.

"Mmmmm, smells like a Thai brothel," he said, encouragingly. Andrea was more helpful.

"Eternity," she sniffed. "Maybe it smells a little musty. But I reckon it's OK."

Not entirely convinced that my gift horse did not have false teeth, I mentally debated whether to risk wearing it or give scent to charity shop, where mustiness was a sought after quality.

Blond athletic man from Hassocks, helped make my mind up.

"Mmmm," he said, as he walked past me. "Eau de underground. Very nice...."