Cecil

Cecil scratched his armpits and trouser snake while the van was stopped at the traffic lights. He farted as the light turned green, put the van into gear, and drove off.

He was sweating again. At the next traffic light he opened the window: cool air in, stink out. The petunias on the roundabout wilted.

At the next red light he absent-mindedly popped one of the spots on his chin, then burped.

He'd arrived. He parked on a double-yellow line and went into the charm school for his 20^th lesson.