Downstairs at 3am, I was trying to calm The Pea, my baby boy. I'd found a method that seemed to be working, swaying gently from side to side while breathing slowly and deeply in and out. If I stopped swaying The Pea would grumble, so I had to keep swaying. If I stopped breathing deeply The Pea would grizzle, so I had to keep breathing deeply... In... Out... In... Out...
Things were going well, so I let myself relax and leaked out a hot, long fart.
Forgetting my commitment to breathing deeply in and out, I had trapped myself in a slowly worsening torture chamber as the fart crept up inside my dressing gown. The first whiff was bad, but for fear of waking the baby I calmly breathed out, then slowly, deeply, deliberately took in the next breath. VERY BAD. Again! And again! Out... then iiiinnnnnnnn. AWFUL.
I was stuck in a cycle of horror, a stinky prison of my own making as I swayed to and fro, calmly and deeply inhaling my own rancid gasses, packing the stench into my nostrils with the focus and clarity of an eggy woofter connoisseur, a guff loving monk.
As I sniffed and swayed, baby in arms (apparently unfazed by the noxious nightmare), I suppressed my gag reflex and kept breathing.
I love being a dad.