It was the night of Christmas. Some might call it Christmas night. Not Christmas Eve, but Christmas Day night.
This is getting complicated. It was yesterday.
The Nunn family was a bit merry. We had all eaten plenty, watched the baby zoom around on her new horse/trike combo, watched her open approximately 300 presents, and played a rousing game or two of the card game, Cheat. (Every year my 90 year-old grandma pretends to forget the rules and hustles us shamelessly. We never learn.)
The baby was fast asleep, and at about 9 p.m., Jack - my brother - brought through to the living room a massive plate of cheese: camembert, gorgonzola, cheddar... more cheese than you could shake a mouse at.
Too much food was already nestling in my tummy. I was too full to move. I let out a silent (but ultimately apparently quite violent) large fart.
"Oh!" shouted Mrs Nunn, who was sitting to my right. "That cheese smells awful."
I stifled a giggle. I thought she'd drop it.
"Which cheese is that, Jack? Let me smell your cheese!" The giggle was no longer stifled. TheBloke (TM) didn't know why I was laughing. Jack passed her the cheese plate.
"It's not this cheese," she said, sniffing the camembert.
I started laughing quite openly out loud.
"Nope, not this," proclaimed Mrs Nunn, after taking a big whiff of the cheddar.
I was almost hysterical with laughter sobs wracking me in half. I whispered, through guffaws, to TheBloke (TM) that I'd just - for want of a better phrase - cut the cheese.
Mrs Nunn was not to be disturbed. "I don't think it's this cheese either," she said, taking a great lung bucketful of the gorgonzola. "My word, something smells awful. It smells like old feet!"
By this point TheBloke (TM) was also giggling.
Mrs Nunn hoovered up one last huge breath of the fart cloud that was surrounding her. "Hmm, that's odd," she said. "It seems to have passed."
Sorry Mum. And thanks for hoovering up my flatulence.