A woman should wobble

I’ve been thinking a lot about sex and lust. (What man doesn’t; even the 58-year-old variety). And over the last few years I’ve realised that my inclinations towards the female form are changing. I find I’m less and less activated by the exposed flesh of young women, while my proclivity towards the older form seems to grow stronger with each passing year.

Of course, this transition may be an adaptive one, a part of man’s evolution. It would be crushing for a bloke to yearn after something he can no longer attain – someone like me, on the cusp of drawing his state pension and lacking both millionaire status and an enormous phallus, is never going to attract beautiful ladies who are half his age.

I should emphasise at this point that I never have, and never will, seek sexual liaisons with anyone other than Mrs Jones. But, to repeat an old adage, there’s no harm in looking. And now, when I look – in the street, pub, or on Naughty America TV – my taste is evolving in the direction of a mature spruce with more concentric rings around the trunk.

A real woman should not own a sculpted, porcelain-like, body. And boob jobs are a definite no-no; when on the move, and unsupported, breasts should not remain firm and static in their silicon straitjacket but should swing, independently of each other, like two pendulous orbs frantically striving to get as far away from each other as possible. A lipid cushion around the girth and buttocks never fails to please a heterosexual, middle-aged male, being more rewarding to touch and warmer to snuggle against in the cold of night.

Is there a finer sight than a mature, voluptuous lady – naked as the day she was born – wobbling in your direction? (Sweet baby Jesus, I’m going all unnecessary at the thought).

So if you are an 80 year-old mother of a daughter, and see me approaching, I suggest you lock her away for her own safety. Indeed, you might wish to take cover yourself as, when I think about it, isn’t there something weirdly alluring about dentures, wrinkles and arthritic limbs.       

** Alas, Mrs Jones refused to pose for the photograph - women, eh; I'll never understand them - so I had to import one courtesy of  stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.net. **

Squeegee and bum cheeks

It is often said that when you live with the same person over many years you grow more and more alike. In our house this phenomenon is most apparent in regards to our newly-fitted shower cubicle.

Mrs Jones is rather obsessive when it comes to cleaning our house. Following the recent fitting of our spanking new bathroom, it was no surprise to find her devoting three hours each week to scrubbing the glass and tiles so as to maintain their sparkle. Her urge to cleanse was, she told me, mainly activated by her noticing water stains on the sides of the shower unit. To counter these triggers, she bought a squeegee – those plastic-handled implements with the rubber edge, commonly used by window cleaners. She told me that she uses this squeegee to remove the drips from all four sides of the cubicle (two tiled, two glass) immediately after each shower. Strategically, she left the device hanging from one of the bathroom fittings.

Immediately following my daily rinse, I now feel compelled to replicate my wife’s cleaning behaviour. If anyone was unfortunate enough to spy on my after-shower routine in the cubicle, this is what they would witness:

STEP 1 – Turn off the sprinkler and pick up the squeegee.

STEP 2 – Standing on tiptoes, dripping wet, stretch and place the squeegee at the top of one glass wall, and slide it downwards to the floor in one smooth, squeaky stroke, while being mesmerised by the strangely addictive droplets of water toing and froing in all directions as if to evade capture.

STEP 3 – Upon reaching the crouch position at the bottom of the stroke, I contemplate how my scrotum swings dangerously close to the shower floor; another few years and I fear my balls will slap against the plastic base like two sloppy dollops of Play-doh.   

STEP 4: Repeat the above, stretching up and down as if in an exercise class, until all of the glass wall is completely free of rogue droplets.

STEP 5: Turn 90 degrees and follow the same procedure with tiled wall only to find that, as I bend, my arse cheeks leave a soggy, two-crescent imprint on the previously cleansed glass which then requires more strokes of my squeegee.

STEPS 6 to 12: Repeat all the above, involving a psychedelic kaleidoscope of gangly bits and hairy rump.

So each morning I spend a half-hour in the bathroom: five minutes to shower and 25 minutes to clean the damn thing. But it does continue to sparkle.   

      

My 'time-and-motion' job

I’m sure we’ve all had jobs in our youth or young adulthood that trigger a smile when we reminisce about them. As a naïve 19-year-old, I recall a temporary summer job during college vacation that instantly rendered me the most unpopular person in the whole factory.

It was 1978, during my 12-week summer recess from university. To earn beer money I needed to work, so my mother helpfully found me a job at the local textile mill where she was employed as a weaver. Initially, my efforts were directed to general labouring tasks – such as scraping grease off the weaving-shed floor – but after a couple of weeks the boss called me into his office.

‘I’d like you to become my “time and motion” man,’ he said.

I was unsure what this role involved. Was it something to do with shit? A toilet monitor, perhaps? Or would I be running errands for him, maybe nipping out to the shop to buy his cigarettes? Maybe he wanted me for his bitch, to bugger me over his work desk whenever the urge arose? Whatever the job involved, it would surely be a step up from chiselling a year’s worth of detritus from between the power looms.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘When can I start?’

The boss was engaged in a mission to boost productivity. The factory was not churning out enough cloth and he wanted to know why. My – terribly important – role required me to sit on the top of a step ladder (like a tennis umpire) in the main weaving shed with a clipboard in one hand and a stopwatch in the other. This room contained 10 looms that rattled away transforming threads of yarn into linen, each machine manned by a responsible weaver. When a loom was active, a green light flashed above the machine; when stopped, a red light flashed. My job was to record the cumulative time that each machine was dormant.

As one might imagine, my presence in the weaving shed was not generally welcomed by the weavers; if their machines were stopped for any length of time, the management would ask questions. Nevertheless, I took to my ‘spying for the bosses’ role seriously, and was soon transformed into a Gestapo-like overseer of the inmates. Each time that red light flashed, my stopwatch started and remained on until the green light was restored; the period of inactivity was then noted on my chart.

Throughout each day of employment in this lofty position, a typical interaction went something like this:

WEAVER: What stoppages have you got for loom 7 this morning?

ME: (scrutinising my chart, my lips pursed in readiness for delivering bad news) Inactive on just the one occasion between 8.14 am and 8.35 am, that’s 21 minutes in total.

WEAVER: But that shouldn’t count. It wasn’t my fault – the warehouse bloke was slow bringing me my yarn and I ran out.

ME: Sorry, pal, but there is not a column on my chart for explanations. My task is to solely record the period of inactivity.

After a few days in the role I even noticed that a couple of the workers would strategically position themselves in front of their lights, obstructing my view, thereby requiring me to descend from my stepladder and strut through the weaving shed to (invariably) discover their red bulb flashing; the subsequent dramatic flash of my pencil on chart screamed the message, ‘you can’t fool me’.

My ‘time-and-motion’ role lasted two weeks, after which I returned to removing grease and other debris from the factory floor. To their eternal credit, none of the weavers held a grudge and I received no criticism in the aftermath. Come to think of it, they didn’t say much to me at all. And, now I look back, there did seem to be a sharp increase in number of accidental spillages that required my attention. And my break-time cup of tea acquired a strange yellowy-green tinge and a whiff of ammonia … …

Has anyone else ever worked in a role that made you unpopular?

Image courtesy of artur84 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

       

      

A bus ride, Greek style

After another afternoon in Kefalonia, lolloping by the swimming pool under the scorching Greek sun, Mrs Jones and I followed our usual holiday routine. We returned to our apartment, showered, admired our tanned skins in the mirror, plastered our flesh with generous splodges of hydrating lotion, and dressed in smart night-time attire in readiness for the evening meal in a local restaurant.

What does your smartphone notebook say about you?

I showed some reluctance to embrace the technological age, convinced that a combination of quill, parchment and carrier pigeon could fulfil all my communication needs. Alas, like almost everyone, I eventually surrendered and now own a range of devices, including a smartphone.

Nowadays I wonder how I ever survived without my Sony Xperia and devote a chunk of each day to spouting my opinions on Facebook, Twitter and other forms of social media. In addition, one application that I regularly use is the ‘Notes’ app, a simple tool that allows one to jot down useful information of any kind; a sort of repository for details, facts and figures I believe I may need to access in the future. Perhaps I’ve got too much time on my hands, but last week I spent an hour or so looking down my list of headings – 72 in total – that comprise my personal notes section. It made interesting reading; indeed, one might consider it a personality assessment or mid-life review.

Some of the headings were unsurprising for a 57-year-old bloke striving to earn a few extra quid as a freelance writer and trainer. Thus, my notes section included titles such as 'teaching venues', 'books to read' and 'ideas for blogposts'. However, other headers on the list were less predictable and maybe provide a neat snapshot of my life.

Below I share a few of the more curious headings on my notebook. I’ve not included any of the detail filed under each one – I’ll leave that to your imagination.

BUSH PRUNING

LASCIVIOUS

BLOOD PRESSURE

VA VA VOOM

BURNLEY LADIES

GENERIC PHARMACY

RED WINE

ROOM 1621

LLOYDS PHARMACY

TURKEY

ALOE VERA GEL

CHRONIC COUGH

PILES

VIBES

After that peep into my personal world, do you think you know me any better now? Likewise, take a look at your own device; what does your smartphone notebook say about you?






Phot courtesy of Sira Anamwong at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

     

Macho madness in the front garden

I’m not a gardener. It typically requires all my self-motivational powers to hoist me out of my

armchair to mow the back lawn once a month. But a recent house move, male pomp, and a desire to impress our new neighbours, spawned some frenetic green-fingered activity that almost resulted in my hospitalisation.

The front garden comprises a sloping rockery down one side, and a gravel area in the centre with flower beds around the edges. A two-day combined onslaught by me and Mrs Jones successfully removed all the weeds. Job complete, I was anticipating a few weeks of rest until I noticed my lady gazing at the pebbly expanse with an expression that could only mean that she was forming a cunning plan.

‘We need some decorative slate for this middle section,’ she said. ‘It’s looking a bit shabby.’

I held back my sighs. There was no point arguing – her mind was made up – so off we went to the local garden centre.

‘This blue stuff would look nice,’ she said while pointing to a mound of hefty bags stacked outside the main entrance. ‘How many would we need?’

‘Four?’ I ventured, mindful that they were £4.99 ($8) each.

‘We’ll require more than that,’ she sneered.

‘OK, eight then; but let’s remember whose fault it is when we have loads left over.’

When we’d paid the lady cashier, she insisted that one of her boys load them into the back of my car. I thanked her for her kindness, while inwardly affronted that she thought that my 57-year-old frame was not up to the task.

The same afternoon I set to work, while Mrs Jones attended to indoor domestic chores. Yes, they were heavy, but I managed to unload each of the eight bags of ‘blue slate decorative aggregate’ and dispense the contents onto the gravelly stretch of my front garden.

Thirty minutes later, my sweaty brow and dusty eyebrows appeared at the open front-room window, prompting Mrs Jones to turn off her noisy vacuum cleaner.

‘We’re going to need a few more bags,’ I said.

She immediately gave me the ‘I told you so’ look. ‘How many?’

‘Thirty-five more should do it.’

This time I ordered online, and the following afternoon the garden-centre van reversed onto my drive. A muscular, gypsy-looking 30-something with a shock of black hair, wearing a flimsy white t-shirt that struggled to contain his rippled torso, opened the rear doors of his vehicle.

‘I’ll need to unload these bags next to where you’re going to spread them; they’re heavy.’

‘No, stack them over here, next to the garage,’ I replied, pointing at a spot about 20 metres away from my front garden.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking me up and down as if assessing my body mass index.

‘Yes, here will be fine,’ I said, smugly.

The hulk proceeded to flip each of the bags from the van onto his shoulder and stacked them on my driveway as directed, completing the whole venture in less than five minutes.

Immediately he’d left, I set to work. How difficult could it be? I’d earlier managed to spread eight of the things, so another 35 shouldn’t be too difficult. The warm, sunny afternoon had brought a few neighbours out into their gardens. I sensed they had clocked my conversation with the delivery man. I had an audience. The challenge was on.

The first few bags caused little difficulty. I flipped each onto my thigh before raising it to chest height (like a professional weight-lifter) and strutting across to my garden for spreading. Indeed, I imagined I was in ‘The World’s Strongest Man’ competition showing those hairy Neanderthals (who, in my imagination, comprised the other contestants) how it was done. I could swear that the lady next door was almost swooning at my raw athleticism.

By the time I reached double figures, I could feel the burn of lactic acid accumulating in my arms and legs. The bags were no longer reaching chest height, instead dangling around my legs as I dragged them while clinging to two corners of the plastic packaging.

When I reached the twenties, I was panting like a Viagra-fuelled dog. One lift triggered an audible fart, and I prayed that the neighbours were out of earshot, or that the sound of my gaseous emission had been muffled by all my gasping and wheezing. I felt dizzy, and suspected that I was now swaying as I heaved each load to the garden. My vision blurred as salty perspiration stung my eyes. 

I think it was around bag number 31 that I wet myself, the energy behind my upward thrust, while barely sufficient to move the blue slate, was enough to contract my bladder. Thankfully my navy-blue tracksuit bottoms concealed the damp patch emerging around my groin.

Despite these adversities, I somehow managed to complete the job. As I staggered back indoors, feeling confused and disorientated, my clothing stained with sweat, piss and spittle, Mrs Jones was stood gazing out of the front-room window.

‘Ah, that looks much better,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ I muttered, while hurrying to the bathroom to clean myself up before she turned round. ‘They weren’t that heavy.’     

The excruciating 3rd meet

Micky Flanagan, a superb British comedian, tells a gag about the social awkwardness of unintentionally meeting someone you know on three occasions within a short period of time. I didn’t grasp what he meant until last Wednesday at the local supermarket.

Four months ago we moved into a new house and, not being the most outgoing person – OK, I accept I’m a smidgeon away from a full-time hermit – interactions with my new neighbours have been rare. There is, however, a bloke who lives opposite who, several times each day, stands in his garden smoking a cigarette; I’ve yet to discover his name but Mrs Jones and I refer to him as ‘nicotine Norman’. I like to be civil so, when leaving or entering my house, when he’s standing there puffing on his Capstan full-strength, we have exchanged nods and one-word greetings.

Anyway, last Wednesday I’m pushing my supermarket trolley along the fresh-meat aisle when there he is, nicotine Norman, lumbering towards me.

‘How you doing?’ I say.

‘Fine thanks,’ he replies.

We exchange smiles and proceed with our weekly shops. I feel pleased with my show of friendliness.

No more than a couple of minutes later, while rummaging in the men’s haircare section, I look up to find Norman bearing down on me.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ I say, feeling a bit uncomfortable at my feeble attempt at humour.

‘Yes, people will start to talk,’ he replies.

Fast forward five minutes and the worst social scenario known to man unfolds next to the fruit and veg: the 3^rd meet. I’d exited the frozen-food lane, and taken a sharp left-hander, when I spot him. He is 20 yards away but approaching fast. A kaleidoscope of questions rush through my mind: has he seen me?; can I do an about turn without him noticing?; perhaps I can look down, as if deep in thought, and pass him as if I haven’t registered his presence?; or maybe I can whip out my mobile phone and pretend to be immersed in conversation with Mrs Jones?

But it’s too late; our eyes meet.

I shrug my shoulders and emit a, ‘Gee-whiz’.

He pulls a strange face, his mouth curling on one side as if suffering a stroke.

I spread my arms, with open palms, and grunt.

He shakes his head and smiles, in that ‘would you believe it?’ way.

Excruciating!

Has anyone else endured a third meet? Or is it just a British thing?  

Photo courtesy of renjith krishnan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

   

A review of my life - the concise version

It is often said that people's attention spans are getting shorter, particularly when reading online. With this in mind - plus the fact that I can't be arsed to string a full sentence together - today's ramblings will comprise single-word descriptors (OK pedants, a few phrases and compound words as well) of each decade of my life; a sort of concise, pocket-sized version of my time on planet earth.  

0 – 10 years: hazy, poo, magical, summery,  Procol Harum, giddy, peeping, kaleidoscope, chips, ice-cream, Santa, tooth fairy, kiss-chase, Dion, climbing-rope tingles, doctors-&-nurses & tonsils.                                                        

11 – 20 years: wanking, rejection, heartbreak, fear, fury, idealism, wanking, Chi-Lites, exploring, experimenting,groping, fingering, wanking, Eagles, dribbling, escaping, wanking, Barley Wine, preening, angst,  puking, posing, pissing & wanking.

21 – 30 years:  shagging, intoxication, studying, shagging, bingeing, all-night parties, achievement, qualifications, love, commitment, Leonard Cohen, shagging, poverty, worrying  & shagging.     

31 – 40 years: weddings, breeding, striving, promotion,  progression,  frenetic,  sleepless,  fathering, exhaustion, caring, doting, vasectomy & cask ales. 

41 – 50  years: mirror-gazing, plucking, introspection, Merlot, fillet steak, trimming, blogging, lettuce, regretting,  reflecting & mid-life wobbles.. 

51 – 60 years: retiring, writing, publication, walking, Viagra,  haemorrhoids, greyness, drooping, sagging,  loss, funerals,  closeness, intimacy, shrivel, Port, aching, holidaying, cruising, spending kids inheritance & contentment. 

What would your life look like in single words or phrases?



Photo courtesy of Vlado at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Homicidal wife or tight trousers? You decide

‘Are you trying to kill me?' I screamed, rubbing the back of my head and glaring at Mrs Jones.

'What are you going on about?' she said, while nonchalantly opening the front-seat passenger door of our Toyota RAV.

Until this point, it had been a typical Friday morning: a 30-minute, high-intensity workout on my static exercise bicycle in our garage, the exertion of which – according to Mrs Jones – sounds like I’m buggering a pig, particularly one with a tight, serrated arsehole; a shower and shave while belting out a tuneless rendition of Mr Tambourine Man; slipping into my favourite black Wranglers, skin tight so as to achieve an agreeably warm hold on my nether regions while allowing me to maintain the delusion that my compressed 57-year-old butt could attract female attention; and then it was off to Tesco supermarket to complete the weekly shop.

Grocery mission accomplished, we exited through the automatic doors and into the carpark. I’m proud of our new car. So while Mrs Jones pushed the supermarket trolley containing eight hefty bags of shopping, I played around with my fob-key, one press for unlock and a second to automatically raise the hatch-back door, both operations delivered from a distance of 30 yards, no less - I do hope somebody was watching. When we reached the rear of the car, being a gentleman with traditional values, I offered to take on the job of loading the car boot (trunk).

The luggage space is a deep one on a Toyota RAV so it required a 90-degree bend to push the heaviest bag into the far corner of the recess. While in this vulnerable, submissive position (with pouting buttocks straining to greet fellow shoppers and torso immersed in the depths of the boot) I heard a whirring noise; someone had pressed the key fob and the hatch-back door had started to close. Images pushed into my mind of being guillotined at the waist, with my severed legs twitching on the floor like a scene from some gruesome horror movie. I sharply retreated from the bowels of the boot only to strike my head on the descending door.

***

So who was responsible for my near-death experience? Despite my wife's protestations, I still harbour my suspicions. Two electronic key fobs lurked in the vicinity of the car that morning, one in Mrs Jones’ possession and the other safely ensconced in the front pocket of my tackle-hugging Wranglers.

I’m off now to check whether she’s bumped up the value of my life-assurance policy.      

   

A lady's guide to controlling a man's erection

I’ve been thinking about my penis again.

This treasured male organ is arguably the most complicated, and least understood, piece of a chap’s body. Nevertheless, the knowledge of the factors controlling its rise and fall - whether it will puff out its chest and stand proud or burrow into the folds of the bollocks – can bestow ladies with a level of power that could dwarf the wizardry of Hermione in the Harry Potter films. 

So here it is, the woman’s guide to how to control your man’s erection. Used wisely, your partner’s todger will inflate or deflate as you so wish, like a balloon permanently attached to your pump.  

1. Flirting & teasing

Subtle flirting, with your beloved and other men, can send a tidal wave of blood towards your partner’s willy.

Sitting next to your dearest on the settee in the evening, clad only in a silky negligee, can often achieve good results. Importantly, he must know that you are not wearing any underwear; even though he’s seen your lady bits a thousand times, the knowledge of what is hiding a few inch above a flowery hemline can send the male of the species into a frenzy.

As for other men, an awareness that you can still attract testosterone-fuelled attention can be a turn on – maybe it’s something to do with a primitive instinct to compete for access to the on-heat female. The sight of the plumber glancing at Mrs Jones’ luscious arse, or a breast wobble, certainly can get my heater running, and I’m sure this doesn’t just apply to me. Does it? Really?

2. Pre-sex comments
When sexual activity is imminent, and the man lets the beast out of the cage – or in my case, when I seductively slip out of my off-white, gusset-worn briefs – the woman’s immediate reaction can determine whether it’s going to be a lusty marathon of uninhibited passion or a floppy 60-metre dash.

Facial expressions conveying awe are always welcome, particularly when accompanied by comments implying that the item swinging between the man’s legs is big enough to do some harm if driven by an irresponsible owner; ‘wow, what’s got into that big boy’ or ‘be gentle with me’ never fail to encourage further engorgement of the male organ.

In contrast, statements often used in response to a baby or a puppy – ‘ah look at him, how cute’ or ‘isn’t he adorable’ – will ensure the meat shrivels as quickly as a salted slug.

3. Gas emissions

Ladies, you may have shared the same bed with him for decades, but farting or belching during coitus are a definite no-no. The smell of gas, from either end of the digestive tract, will stun a stout erection like a taser, leaving it twitchy and limp.

4. Grasp his weapon with both hands
Irrespective of what the agony-aunts say, size matters. At least it does in the male mind, where a belief that heavy weaponry will be involved is essential to sustain an erection.

So, ladies, when you grab his willy don’t use a finger and thumb; that gives the impression of micro work, like threading cotton through a needle. Instead grab his todger with both hands, one above the other, as if about to climb a rope. Granted, in my case this may require David-Blaine-like illusionary skills and a degree of finger dexterity worthy of a professional hand-puppeteer, but the deception will always be rewarded with enhanced sexual performance.    

5. Mid-coitus noises

In the midst of sexual abandon, orgasmic female cries – genuine or otherwise – will keep the phallic embers burning. Silence gives the impression (probably accurate in Mrs Jones’ case) that the lady’s mind has drifted and rather than being immersed in the pleasure of your lusty lunges, she is instead considering what colour of varnish she’ll put on her nails in the morning.

And some mid-sex comments must be avoided. Speaking from personal experience, guaranteed willy-softeners include: ‘Are you in yet?’; ‘Can you keep your mouth shut, you’re spitting all over me’; and ‘Will you cut your toe-nails – they’re like fucking talons!’.

6. Skin scratching

Urgent clawing of the male buttocks indicates that the lady is enjoying herself and, as such, sustains the blood flow to man’s fifth limb. Superficial scratches down the back - as long as they don’t cause haemorrhage and divert blood flow from where it’s most needed – are also helpful in instilling the primitive, animalistic dimension to the sexual act that men find so arousing.

A definite no-no, however, is inflicting pain on the meat and two veg. Ballocks are meant to be caressed and cradled, not grabbed and twisted. And fingernails piercing the todger is a sure-fire way of transforming a throbbing phallus into a wet straw.


So, ladies, there you have it; the knowledge and power to forever control the male member. What better skill could you wish for? Your welcome.



Photos courtesy of: interphasesolution at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
                                arztsamui at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

Women don't fart

Sharing an office with Suzanne had many advantages. 

 

In her early 30s, with shoulder-length auburn hair and full figure, she brightened my working week. Indeed, she kindled all my five senses. My 50-year-old eyes feasted on her taut buttocks and fulsome breasts – but only when she was occupied and wouldn’t notice my attention; I’m a gentleman and wouldn’t wish to make her feel uncomfortable nor for her, God forbid, to conclude that I was indulging in unwholesome thoughts. Her gentle voice caressed my eardrums with intelligent commentary on work-related issues. And as for smell, her entry into the office was always followed by a delightful waft of Opium perfume mingled with herbal-essence shampoo. Alas, the touching and tasting only happened within the confines of my imagination.

But there is one major drawback of sharing an office with a woman: you can’t fart. Amongst males, one can let an audible one fly, apologise, and carry on as normal. But with females around, gassy emissions are prohibited.

Contrary to what you read in biology textbooks and on social media, pretty women never fart. Nor do they defecate. It is a little-known fact that females’ waste products, and associated gases, evaporate from the tops of their heads and smell like hairspray.

One morning in the office, Suzanne at the adjacent desk, I felt the ominous stomach rumble, like the extended growl of thunder prior to an electric storm. A swirling vortex of noxious gas was demanding release and accelerating towards my arse. And I knew it would produce a stench of eye-watering intensity - six pints of finest cask ale the night before would see to that - so slipping it out silently was not an option. 

‘I’ll pop out and photocopy this document’ I said, while rising from my chair and grabbing the nearest piece of paper from the desk.

‘Do you want me to do it later?’ asked Suzanne. ‘I’ve got a lot of photocopying to do and …’

‘No it’s OK’, I interrupted, already exiting the office.

Clenching my buttocks, I scampered along the corridor to the deserted photocopying room and closed the door behind me. In the privacy of this oasis, I leaned forward, hands on my thighs, and prepared to let rip. But nothing happened. As with other bodily functions – urinating in the doctor’s bottle, achieving an erection during one’s first sexual encounter – the process of breaking wind can, paradoxically, fail to deliver when you most need it to. On this occasion, my intestinal cyclone of noxious vapour had performed a U-turn and burrowed into the depths of my gut. I loitered a couple of minutes beside the photocopier, expecting the stomach rumble to return, but the gas showed no sign of a seeking a reappearance.

Deflated in mood, if not in body, I returned to my office. As I entered I noticed Suzanne’s cheeks had turned crimson. Unusually, she did not look up to acknowledge my presence, instead maintaining an unwavering focus on her computer screen.

And then it hit me. A rancid mix of rotting egg and semi-digested cabbage clung to the inside of my nostrils. My embarrassment was palpable with the horrific realisation that, unknown to me, my fart must have slipped out during my hasty exit. After all, what other possible explanation could there be?



Photos courtesy of: Stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos .net
                                Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net