Flatus Interruptus

A bead of sweat trickled down Jeff's forehead.

"So, we need to get work completed by the end of Friday so we can start testing next week. The delivery date is barely month way, and we absolutely must have it ready on time."

Oh for Christ's sake shut up and piss off! thought Jeff as Derek (Team Leader and Pompous Prick Extraordinaire) droned on, belabouring the point as if addressing a complete moron.

The pressure was growing inexorably, and it was all Jeff could do to keep his backside clenched shut and not let rip right there and then. The gas, which had been building up all morning, finally seemed to reach some critical intensity, triggering what Jeff could only think of as a backfire—with a sonorous rumble it retreated back up his colon to regroup and prepare for a later advance at a suitably inopportune moment.

"What was that noise?" asked Derek, viewing him with suspicion and clearly irked at having been interrupted in full flow.

"It's the central heating," Jeff improvised, "I think the radiators need airing."

"Hmmm." Derek seemed unconvinced, but didn't seem inclined to pursue the issue further. Having lost his thread, he brought his sermon to an abrupt end.

"So I can count on you to get it finished quickly."

"Uh, yeah, sure."

"Good man. Well, I won't take up any more of your valuable time. Remember to give me a status report at the end of the day."

Prat. Jeff watched until the bane of his life had strutted down the corridor back to his own office, then stood up and headed to the toilets. On checking he was in there alone, he leaned on the bank of sinks and strained to relieve himself of his unwanted burden.

Nada. Nothing. Rien.

He stared at himself in the mirror, his face reddening slightly as he upped the pressure. But the gas reservoir was now sulking in some deep cavern, truculently refusing to issue forth after its earlier rebuff. A small grunt of effort passed his lips as he strove ever harder, but it was to no avail.

"Bugger," he confided to the empty room before returning to his desk. Bloody Sandra and her bloody cooking. Bloody chicken bloody vindaloo, with bloody pilau rice and bloody garlic bloody naan bloody bread. "You'll just love it," she had twittered as she'd dolloped this culinary armageddon onto his plate. It had nearly blown his head off on the way in, and it was, he speculated, just as likely to blow his arse off on the way out. But worst of all had been the attack of the farts.

Or non-farts, as it had turned out. There were times when Jeff, atheist from the top of his balding head to the tips of his tiny toes, would conjecture that the universe was overseen by a malevolent force that took unseemly pleasure in being as perverse as humanly—or should that be inhumanly— possible, and today was definitely one of those days. Every time the gas was kicking the door down demanding to be set free, there was always some idiot or other within earshot. And whenever he was alone and could safely have sent it on its way with an enthusiastic and heart-felt bon voyage, it would have retreated to the murky depths from whence it would resolutely refuse to budge despite all coaxing.

The bus journey? Ten minutes seemed like ten hours.
The walk from the bus stop to the office? Not as much as a parp.
Chatting inane crap with the security guard? The silly old fool had even asked if Jeff was feeling alright, unaware of the battle between sphincter and flatus that was raging on the other side of the desk.

And so the tide had ebbed and flowed as the morning dragged on.

Lunchtime! Calloo-callay! Thank, God, Allah, Budda and, for good measure, Zeus, Odin and Queztalcoatl as well! Jeff headed for the door as fast as he could risk moving without giving the rest of the office an impromptu rendition of The Trumpet Involuntary. The pressure was most definitely on again.

Having the lift to himself, he could hold on no longer. The first blast conjured up long-forgotten memories of the foghorns at the fishing port where he had been born and raised—a solid five-second steady baritone note that, given time, could have shaken dental fillings loose. The subsequent volley wah-wah-wah-waahed its way from B-flat down to G, its descending journey sounding like nothing so much as a comedy trombone glissando. Jeff sighed, his face a picture of blessed relief...until the stench hit home. The Ghost of Vindaloo, The Spirit of Naan, The Spectre of Pilau— a Dickensian triumvirate from the bowels (literally) of hell, come to confront him with the folly of his gastronomic misdeeds.

As his eyes started to stream, the doors opened and in strode Derek.

"Ah Jeff, there was just one other thing I...wanted...to...discuss..."