Mortifying to say the least.

I should have known that Pad Thai had it in for me. 4 days it had sat in my fridge, eyeing me off, taunting me.

But here it is, my stomach with hurricane gforce, awaiting the bishop to beckon us to stand, to sing high praises to our lord.

And did my insides praise the high and mighty, yes… yes it did.


I’m right in the middle of the choir, sweating profusely even though it’s chilly - curtesy of the high rafters and drafty nature of an ancient church. Floorboards creak as everyone stands around me, the organ awaiting its cue.

So I stand.

My cheeks clap at the turbulent forces released. It starts low, hesitant, all my efforts spent stifling the gas. But alas, flood gates now open and the raging torrent comes fourth. A booming wave echoes down the pews. My mother and father in the 3rd row, our frail old neighbour Mrs Batts - who’s hearing aid picks up all my shame, my headmaster in the final row. The whole congregation’s eyes widen.

And then all eyes from the choir shift towards me. They know where. They know who. I redden and shrink. I have found my rock bottom… or so I thought… for then the smell arrives.

Rotten eggs beyond recognition. Road kill. Remains of a seafood buffet having been left in a bin in 40 degree for. Multiple days. One who’s profession resides in an abattoir would struggle with the smell now wafting throughout the church.

My life is over.

But there he is. He clears his throat, demanding all attention. His blonde closely cut curls, Adonis figure, guitar strumming fingers and smile that shames the rising sun.

“Sorry everybody!” He announces, an angelic expression of guilt. The lightest hue of red alighting his cheeks, although the shame was not his.

Light snickers follow round the room, as those closest to me wave away the smell. Those close know the truth. They know my shame.

The organ begins.

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