July 4, 2009

"Oh, bollocks," he said. "It's gone into my sock."

We look up, a little startled, from the dining room table.

But he's already gone.

Dashing upstairs.

We hear a groan of self-disappointment.

The shower springs to life.

Furious scrubbing can be heard.

A noise sounding like 'whoosh'.

A plethora of fresh smells cloud him as he comes back to the table.

"What?" we ask.

"I thought it was just a fart," he says. "But I followed through. Went right down into my sock."

We're living the dream.