Not fish and chips as a sea front lunchtime treat.
Not a rose that, by any other name, would still smell as sweet.
Not the smell of hops as you pass the brewery door.
Not the whiff of balti that leaves you wanting more.
Not the most delicate or expensive of perfumes.
Not the most fragrant of pot pourri in posh living rooms.
Not the freshness of the air, in the aftermath of rain.
Not the smell of a loved one, so imprinted on your brain.
But the Saturday afternoon rush, the matchtime wee dram,
the intoxicating first inhale of freshly-purchased programme.