December-January is traditionally an exhausting time for many people. Everything seems depleted. The world is running on empty. There is not enough sleep. Not enough car parks. Not enough patience and never enough cash.

But, in the Hunter, there's plenty of humidity. It's muggy. Sweaty. Perfect conditions to bring on body odour season.

December and January are not the best months for synthetic clothing. It's also not the best time to ease up on personal hygiene. Using COVID isolation as an excuse to stay stinky is not going to wash in this neck of the woods.

We've been allowed, within reason, to get out in public.

In 2020, supplies of certain essentials were patchy, at best. But many items remained plentiful, including deodorant (all sorts of under-arm concoctions, from nuclear-strength to 100 per cent natural).

Soap didn't disappear and the water wasn't cut off.

Even though social-distancing has been awkward and confusing at times, it has given the BO Brigade boundaries. A 1.5 metre buffer zone is nothing to sniff at.

Body odour season is like magpie season. Both involve unprovoked attacks on unsuspecting citizens.

For me, copping a nostril of BO is as brutal as suddenly losing a piece of scalp to a territorial native bird. I was thinking of wearing a mask 24/7 during BO season, but I'm not keen on shelling out for a full-face respirator.

I haven't been attacked by a maggie recently, but I have been swooped by BO kamikazes. Social-distancing has, by and large, kept the malodorous menaces at bay. But there have been times when a fellow human, who uses neither deodorant nor soap, slips into that sour spot upwind.

Then there is the small, yet potent, group of BO bike riders. I had a close call with one a few weeks ago while on a walk. There I was, feeling smug that I had finally relaunched my gruelling exercise regime, when I was passed by a bloke riding a bicycle.

He gave his bell a "ding" to let me know he was approaching. He needn't have bothered. His alarming scent was enough to raise the dead. Not only did it flag he was within gagging distance, it lingered long after he was gone.

How is that even possible?

But, his imposing air wasn't the only thing I noticed. He wasn't wearing a helmet. With all the unclean thoughts I could muster, I wished that a livid magpie would take out its seasonal frustration on the BO biker.

I know it's still the season for goodwill, but I'm all out of good thoughts. I'm defeated and depleted.

But my sour mood, like a mega-pack of toilet roll on a supermarket shelf, won't last long. I've sniffed a decidedly cheesy "new year, new me" vibe in the air. I'm all set to hit the ground running.

Just give me a minute to get off my soapbox.

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