I’m sure we’ve all done it. And, I’ll be honest, if you try and tell me that you haven’t then I shall point at you and ask if you need an extinguisher for those trousers you’re wearing. The ones which seem to be very much ablaze.
We’ve all broken wind on public transport.
You. And you. And you.
I’ve done it so often that I think I could legitimately list it as a hobby on my CV.
But, correct me if I’m wrong, when you do it you try and do it quietly. Discreetly. On the sly.
Not everyone does that, it seems.
Yesterday I journeyed home on the bus. To mix things up a bit, I rode on the bottom deck. Not for me thrill of being able to see into the windows of the houses we passed. No, my view would be of hedges, bushes and fences.
I took to reading my book (Cold Day by Jim Butcher, since you asked) and occasionally lifting my head up to confirm a) my surroundings and b) the activities of my fellow passengers.
At one of these checks, the man across the aisle from me lifted himself from his seat and let rip with an almighty fart.
Now… I have lived. I might not have seen all the sights that the world has to offer, but I have been present at the precise moment an elephant passed wind.
This was very similar.
An elephant parping, incidentally, sounds like you would expect and, I think, is one of nature’s greatest sounds. It’s loud, the sound carries like no other and it’s vaguely onomatopiaic.
If you’ve never heard an elephant fart, inagine some walruses playing pat-a-cake. Or applauding loudly to something that Walruses really appreciate. Like performance theatre, or the opening bars of a symphony. It was just like that.
And I heard it come from an elderly gentleman, propping homself up on crutches to get an air gap twixt buttocks and seat.
And unless he was the North of England’s premier elephant fizz-bang impersonators then he let rip with all his colonic might.
Apparently I’m still a childish child, as I laughed all the way home.