Wind
He wasn’t really sure whose it was, but whoever unleashed it, silently, quickly, quietly, certainly had a lot of power. Merrily it seemed to bounce round the lift, seeping into the pores of everyone – even those wearing tights under their trousers.
Tights under their trousers? ‘That would be unusual but not altogether surprising’ thought Jack. He’d been wondering about that new person in the department, ‘Graham Norton’ his name. Someone famous apparently – recently fallen on hard times. Rumoured to have had a TV show once, the show centred round camp jokes and telephoning odd people in America.
Mind you, everyone in America seemed a little odd. Hundreds of high protein, testosterone-overloaded people all bursting to burn off their girth in the nearest gym. With training they could sprint between hamburger bars. Surely the simplest thing would have been to reduce the input rather than concentrate on speeding up the output by eating psyllium seed or suchlike?
Funny thing farts. They conjured up a mixture of emotions: loathing; guilt even. ‘What if the other people in the lift thought it was me?’ Thought Jack. Where had it started? Somewhere in the corner he thought. Miss Jones seemed to be a bit more nervous than usual. Was it because of what she had unleashed – or was she controlling her buttocks?
She certainly did have nice buttocks. Seemed very unlikely that anything faintly odorous could come out of them. Anyway she looked the sort who would forever have them tightly clenched – along with her knees too probably.
That was cruel. Who was he to opine about the private practices of the sole female in the lift? But if Miss Jones had not ‘passed wind’ then who had? Why had everyone suddenly become transfixed by the lift door? Everyone – all five of them – seemed to have their eyes fixed on the sign that showed which floor they were at. Almost as if, by diversion, they hoped to make themselves immune to the smell. And yes, indeed, the smell was spreading. He could feel it seeping through his trouserlegs and attaching itself to the hair on his legs. Soon it would reach his sweater and we all know how wool clings on to any scent that is unattractive: tobacco; cheap aftershave – the scent of a married woman that is then easily recognised by your wife.
Jack shifted position slightly. He moved the balls of his feet. Only three floors to go now. What was that? The lift doors were opening. Surely not, they all worked on the same floor. But this was because someone was wanting to come in. It was Mr Turner, Head of Hygiene. Funny sort of person. Always looked as if he had just stepped out of the shower. Gave off an aroma of cleanliness.
Only this time Mr Turner seemed to have a change of heart. He looked at the glazed eyes staring at him, through him, to cleaner horizons, and simply said "Good Morning – I think I’ll take the stairs". Must be this new keep-fit craze sweeping the company. Over-eating during Christmas had meant that trouser waistbands had to be adjusted. Tailor-made suits did not seem to fit quite as well.
Ah this was it. His floor. Floor 23. There was a mini-scrum as the inhabitants all tried to exit at the same time, anxious not to be the last one to leave. ‘He who leaves last is the owner of the fart’ thought Jack. It was well known that the originator of such smells is often immune to most of the effects – and is thus the last one to leave. However to divert attention the farter may try to be the first one to leave and therefore shift blame onto the others. A sort of prisoner’s dilemma, a zero-sum game.
The door opened and a clutch of rather smelly people left an even smellier lift. Jack’s office was the first on the right.
Jack entered and was immediately given a folder by his secretary, Daphne. "It’s your speech about the economy" she said handing him a folder. "Thanks" responded Jack and sat down at his desk to skim through it. The conference was this afternoon and he was giving a keynote speech to the CBI.
He opened the folder:
“Ladies and Gentlemen I have been asked to talk about the economy. Let me start with the proverb ‘It's an ill wind that blows no good’. This is from John Heywood 'The Proverbs of John Heywood'. On September 11th the wind carried with it four aeroplanes….”
Jack smiled, somewhat ironically to himself. Just as an ill wind may bring no good, wind may make you ill. He was beginning to feel a little queasy…..