The Wuff with the Smooth: Stories without Waffle – Vol 1

I had almost forgotten about this little titbit of brilliance – that is – until Waffle decided he’d like to have diarrhoea and then redecorate the back hall. The less said about that episode the better, I think you’ll agree.

However, the discovery of the redecoration and then returning of the back hall to its original colour scheme reminded me of a conversation I’d overheard whilst buying supplies in our local shop.

You may remember from last week that Waffle had redeveloped a taste for tissue paper and consequently, during my trips to the shop, had destroyed both a bolt of kitchen roll and also an entire box of tissues. Well, on my third trip to the shop that week (after all tissues had been relocated to higher ground and out of his reach), I was on the hunt for lunch fixings.

As is usually the way when I enter a shop, I never – or at least very rarely – lift a basket. The end result of that foolishness is that I wind up at the counter with arms overflowing with purchases. Last week, those purchases included all the fixings for my sandwich – brown bread, ham, spring onions, cheese and perhaps even a bag of Tayto.

Upon arrival in the queue to the counter, I found myself behind two elderly farmers, both of whom were bedecked in well-used wellies and warm-looking winter coats, and both clutching armfuls of supplies, like myself. One of the men was also trying to persuade the coffee machine adjacent to the counter to fill him a cup of ambition.

Behind them in the queue as I was, I soon found myself inadvertently eavesdropping on their conversation. I mean, I couldn’t not, such was my proximity, although most of their chat was decidedly un-exciting, featuring topics like weather forecasts and the state of the ground and that fella who lived nearby whose silage was “poor enough aul tackle” for the cattle.

I had almost managed to tune out of their confab, thinking as I was about what Waffle-related disaster might await me upon my return home. And then one of the men farted.

It was the sort of sound that a joke fart machine might have generated, all bubbles and reverb and immediately, the other man took an over-large sidestep away and laughed.

The farter appeared to be the older of the two and he had the good grace to look abashed after the deed. Behind them as I was, I didn’t get a good view of their faces but I could at least discern that both men were smiling. The whole incident – which lasted no longer than several heartbeats – reminded me of something which might have transpired in the queue for the school canteen, such was its boyish charm.

To this day, I don’t know if the men, particularly the farter, realised I was in earshot. Because what came next almost knocked me down.

The elder man – He who Hath Passed Wind – leaned in towards his friend, mock winced and then said in a false whisper, “That’s gonna be itchy when it dries.”

As the two old farmers cracked up, I tried not to drop my supplies. I was suddenly weak at the knees.

And then I laughed the whole way home.

Also, just in case you were concerned, Waffle had managed not to chew anything into smithereens in my absence.