We ambled along our usual Thames-side path today, dog-less since this time last year, but nevertheless still celebrating our good fortune at being able to follow in the footsteps of Ratty, Mole and their cronies, along the riverside stretch immortalised by Kenneth Grahame.
Mrs H was striding up ahead, working at her new chest-strengthening exercises prescribed by her physio team and feeling glad to be alive.
I wandered behind at a safe distance, my lower intestine notifying me that pressure from last night’s Malik’s vegetable curry were building.
Far enough away not to be reprimanded, I let one small but perfectly in-tune fart slip out. A mere piccolo, I thought - not bad tone. Emboldened by that and realising the rest of the brass section was warming up, I lifted one leg a little, and released a full-blown crescendo that the Band of the Scots Guards would have saluted.
Then a little Yorkshire Terrier bounded by, with a sideways look that I swear was jealousy.
It was only then of course, that I realised said Terrier most likely wasn’t on his own. I turned to find a couple walking a mere 10 yards in my slipstream, and gaining rapidly.
They gave me what seemed like a pitying smile as they passed by, briskly…
My apologies go to them, and to Kenneth Graham, for farting on his parade.