It’s 4.20am and young Nibbles is thrashing around and crying in the corner of our bedroom, suffering from some nasty wind. When you are only 18 inches long, a bubble of gas going through your digestive tract is a big deal and it’s understandable that he gets upset. I’m comforting him, giving him little pats and ssshhhs and popping a dummy in when he wants it. Then –

Pppphhhhhrrrppbb!

“That was him” I hasten to tell Jen, lest she think I’m some sort of flatulent oaf that just stands there, venting gas while his son is in pain.

Pbbbffffpphhhhb! “Oh, actually that one was me”

Phhhhhuurrrt! “That was him again”

Pppbbbbbbbt! “Sorry – me that time”

Phhhhhbbpppbb! “That was him, honestly”…

And so on, much in the vein of the beans scene from Blazing Saddles. “Like father, like son” Jen observed in a sleep-deprived sort of way. I must say that the little guy makes me proud.