I wasn't very well last night. I reckon a combination of stress factors was to blame. The most amusing part of being ill (please be aware that with the vomiting and stomach cramps, there wasn't an awful lot to choose from) was the forty-five second fart that I did.
It actually went on so long that at one point I thought it might actually never end. That I would forever be known as the girl with the motorbike bottom. That it could ruin several important life occasions... board meetings, annual reviews, walking up the aisle... though that would entail finding a guy who wanted to marry a girl whose bottom spewed an unending air biscuit.
It did stop eventually, you'll be pleased to hear.
Anyway, I wasn't going to Plog about this, but on telling someone about the humungous guff (I really have to keep my mouth shut more), I was challenged to Plog on the subject. Hence the last remaining scrap of my dignity disappears into the ether. Much like the arse blast itself.