The Fart (365 Ways With Words)

An early-afternoon calm settled on the hot classroom. The heat of the clear-blue day radiated through the windows to counter the effects of the air conditioning from the glowering May sun. The uninspiring view of the square box mid-Kowloon syline served only to focus the minds of the students – there was simply nothing else to do.

Whilst they settled into the task, the teacher sat down on his soft chair and used the silent opportunity to send vital emails, put the finishing touches to a worksheet and glance at Facebook. Another 15 minutes of worktime stretched ahead. But something else was pressing – wind.

Breaking wind in class is a perennial problem. Mild-mannered teachers exercise strict control of all bodily functions, saving it up until a visit to the lavatory enables a full discharge. Bravo! Ladies produce perfumed farts reminiscent of a walk through an English Country Garden. The gods of teaching kind have no such problems: they simply do not fart – ever – not even by mistake. Others, however, the human-sort – flesh and blood – are not quite so lucky. For them, even a sneaky one could spell disaster; social ostracism at best and a possible career exit as worst.

Such was the case that afternoon. It had been a curry night and late start. All was ship-shape until the mild diuretic and laxative effects of a large lunch-time cup of tea. Then the gurgling began, unnoticed by all sat more than five feet away. Once the corner had been turned there was simply no-where else for it to go. A smelly emination of gargantuan proportions was imminent.

What to do? The teacher looked up at the class – heads were bowed and eyes down, their task taking up attention. It was now or never and if worst came to the worst then a blank face would be proof alone of innocence – teachers don't fart, do they?

Up on one cheek, the urgent pressure on the emergency valve was released one turn – sufficient to allow egress in a controlled manner. But the combined nature of the gases was such that once out of the bag, so to speak, the release became a gaseous flood, and a noisy one at that: "Paaaaarppp!!!" A rattly rasp redolent of the plastic chair variety filled every ear with its shocking, defiant tone.

All heads looked up, shocked at the sudden and unabashed retort from a base bodily function. Protesting disgust, their glances instantly fell upon the teacher, but as arbiter of classroom etiquette and politeness, not as instigator. His reflected face protested shock and with outrage enquired, "Who did that?"

Some swung glances towards Freddy, whose head was still lowered in attention to work. "Freddy!" arose a synchronous chorus. The usual suspect protested innocence. But then the earthy, rotten smell flooded across the desks. Hands rushed to noses and nostrils were plugged with whatever came to hand. "Poo! Freddy!" Even the teacher joined in. "Freddy, can you please go to the toilet?" He protested louder than normal, but it felt to all-but-one of the assembled inhalers as a weak misdirecting ruse. He remained firmly in his plastic chair.

Finally, Freddy sat red-faced, an admission of guilt: he appeared to enjoy another occasion for notoriety. The class settled again as the Brownian Motion equally distributed the gases to all four corners of the room. By rights the teacher should have been outed, and re-Christened in a manner that would mean future generations would forever remember the incident, but against all likelihood he got away scot-free. The school day ended the lesson and another reminder was issued to the poor Freddy to ensure his bodily functions were firmly under control, a humourous last-minute classroom finale that failed to detonate the desired camaraderie – "It wasn't me! It wasn't!" he frowned. The teacher felt pity and not a little shame for the poor fall guy, but there was no alternative: protest or no, he had to take the hit.