A short story [about passing gas].

Thank you to The Queen of Bermtopia for my delightful new title.

*

Georgia's been farting since shortly after dinner yesterday evening. 


I admit, I was very thankful when she decided to sleep downstairs in the lounge room last night. But the smell was so bad [a gross understatement], it drifted upstairs. Even separated by a staircase, it was gag worthy. 


It was precisely 12.03 by the bedside clock when the smell woke me up.


Then [very sadly], at around 1, our dog decided to join us in the bedroom. She came to politely ask me to put on her jammie, then plonked herself on her bed at the foot of ours and was snoring in under 5 minutes. I didn't have the heart to chase her back downstairs, not that it would have made any difference I suppose. 


Shortly after, a frightful wall of smell hit me. Even The Other Half woke up. [To give you an idea of how remarkable this is, we're talking about a man who once turned over and fell back to sleep when I told him there was a burglar outside our bedroom window.] 


We had to open the windows and turn on the fan. This would be okay except it's winter and 7 degrees outside.

*

I've finally given up trying to sleep in a cold smelly bedroom and am now hiding downstairs in the study. I've opened more windows to air the house, and lit an incense stick [which doesn't seem to be making a dent in the air quality]. I have a feeling today is a goner. Might as well go make some coffee.


Thanks Georgia, for an unforgettable birthday present.