I winced in concentration, but all I could think about was bloody Kitler, marching the goose-step through the streets of Berlin, with an army of stern looking cats behind him doing the same.
I attempted a couple of covert sniffs of my armpit, to assess the damage. I’m ashamed to admit that a pungent aroma assaulted my nostrils. Disgusted, I retched and had to physically shake myself back to my senses.
I knew we were in trouble when the driver started swearing in Kazakh. I don’t speak Kazakh, I didn’t have to. Fear is universal.