On Tuesday, I reached the ripe old age of 36. It has taken some time for me to remember how old I am, given that I still think I was only just 30. In dog years, I guess I still am 30, with another year to go until I reach 31.
I wonder if it is true, that whole dog year thing.
It was a shiny, happy day, with the sun grinning down on the earth to mark the yearly celebration of the day I escaped from a vagina. I opened presents and liked numerous birthday posts. I remembered to open the cards first. Because I am good mannered like that. In fact, my manners are wonderful. I become more and more ladylike every single day.
Which is why my beloved was able to book us in for a night at the fanciest restaurant and hotel in the world.
The waiters wear a single cotton glove, to pick up cutlery without leaving fingerprints. I have a hunch it could also double as toilet paper, but that’s not ladylike. The fellow who took us to our table had a french accent, which is quite fun to emulate when being a panda – but again, not ladylike. We had the best table in the restaurant, overlooking the beach – not passing dogs or skateboarding locals. The beach.
We were presented with aperitifs (prawns with some black stuff served on a spoon), and offered still water. Still is posh for “tap”, and is free.
We contemplated the entree menu, but decided to skip straight to mains. We also declined dessert, as my beloved had packed dessert for us. The meals were huge, and I didn’t need to worry about choking on fish bones. There were no bones in my barra. I had a hunch that this place possibly bred their own fish, specifically designed to grow without developing bones or a functioning cloaca.
We were stuffed when we got back to our room. We stood, looking very ladylike and not at all like ourselves. I stepped towards the lounge area of our room, as my beloved started to speak.
“I don’t know how people would fit in an entree, a main and a -“
The rest of her statement disappeared under the noise of a very loud, very extended and very musical breaking of wind. The hotel descended into silence, and at the center of the shameful horror, in her most ladylike clothing, stood I.
I recovered, and glanced at my beloved.
She was looking at me with something resembling love in her eyes.
Then I did it again, and fell over laughing, and don’t tell her but I did a micro-wee, so intense was my laughter.
What the fuck was in that barra?
We evacuated the lounge area and spent the rest of the night watching cartoons and playing board games. Well, not really, but that’s the end of the details I’m allowed to share.
Do posh people pass wind? What would a posh person have done?