“Farting ferry rides Batman; I think we should trade in the batmobile…”

This morning, once again, I caught a ferry to work. And, once again, it confirmed what every fibre of my being has been screaming from my very first go: TRAVELLING TO WORK VIA A FERRY IS FUCKING AWESOME.
Sorry about all of the screaming and swearing, my body isn’t very well mannered.

Anyway, this morning while sitting on the fantastic ferry – the one I catch to work every morning, the one that has a cafe onboard (A cafe onboard! A cafe onboard! A cafe onboard! Could life get any sweeter?) – I was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming need to fart.

Sorry – too early in the day for talk of wind? I’d hate to pollute your brunch with stories of flatulence, but believe me when I say that it was painful. Every second of the 30-minute journey I was acutely aware that one wrong move and I would blow the man sitting next to me clean off his seat and render anyone within a 1km radius unconscious.

My only option was to sit really still, clench really hard and try to will the sensation to go away.

“Hey fart, could you just hold off? Pretty, pretty please could you just wait until I’m in the open air? Just a few more minutes. Please, please, please…”

But the fart wasn’t having any of it. With the strength of a mini tornado it ripped through my insides pulling on my facial muscles – the ones reserved for eating mint chocolate, moving house, constipation and Tony Abbott.

I was on the verge of causing the next national disaster and could already imagine reporters telling the world how “before the woman exploded, her face looked like she’d caught Bronwyn Bishop and John Howard fornicating…” but then something in my resolve strengthened.

I’d be damned if that’s how I went out. So I exerted my last bit of energy and held it in. And that was this morning’s ride on the ferry. And you know what? Even with that discomfort it was infinitely better than catching a bus. Ferries are great.