I ordered some new tyres for the Troll the other day, from a place in Germany. They arrived yesterday, and are leaning eagerly against the wall in our porch at the moment, all lovely and clean and black with a forest of little rubber whiskers on them, like the tiny flowers on moss.

It's all I can do to resist the temptation to go and roll one in here, just to hold it. Sit with it on my lap and bury my nose in it.

That smell.

That fabulous, wonderful smell.

That exquisitely evocative rubbery perfume which has now pervaded the front half of our house. Give me the staccato chatter of pneumatic wheel guns, the undulating, thrumming hiss of compressors, a filthy mug lined with the tide marks of a thousand cups of tea strong enough to float a balance weight and I'm in bloke heaven.

The smell of new tyres has to come quite close to the top of the list of whizzo pongs, too.

Right up there with just-laid and steaming tarmacadam, the haze of Castrol R hanging over a racing circuit, just-mown grass, an autumn bonfire, fresh chainsaw chippings (cut timber and two-stroke exhaust together), canvas tents, leather upholstery in sun-baked cars, cooking bacon, warm bread, the nape of my dog's neck, Marmite on hot toast...

Any more for any more?

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Quote: Frantone wrote in post #6

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...outdoor bacon...

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