I feel obliged to send my apologises to the lady at the checkout. She was standing there minding her own Covid-19 socially distant business when something heinous happened.
Something she wasn’t prepared for. Hell I wasn’t even prepared for it.
It was both awful and nauseating… My son farted.
No, not just your regular fart.
Not a regular loudly audible fart either.
It was one of those farts that you’d expect a dairy intolerant person to do after a full-fat vanilla thick shake with a side of cheese. One that makes you feel like you are wading your way through a shit storm. Literally. A storm raining poo particles.
It wasn’t hard and fast either. The smell that is. It lingered for quite sometime. In fact it lasted until the very last bag was getting packed and then … his brother let one go.
I was every shade of red embarrassed which actually, now thinking about it, probably made me look like the guilty party. I wasn’t because I would rather my intestines explode all over the shopping centre than to ever let a silent but violent gas escape my arse cheeks.
Seriously people whinge about taking their kids shopping because they’re feral. Instead I’m whinging coz they’d held in those putrid gas balls all day so as not to upset their teachers but went hell for leather in a shopping centre checkout where we stood, without masks, unable to escape.
Thanks sons. Thanks.