Methane, I need hardly tell you, is a by-product of people and animals passing gas.
They blamed flatulent Australian cows for a while, but I knew Daisy and the dairy herd were being scapegoated, since I knew for a fact that Yorkshiremen generate industrial amounts of methane. They produce enough wind to power a medium-sized town for a week. Well, one son of Yorkshire at any rate. Mine.
The man is a regular wind farm. Two forkfuls of cabbage at dinner and the duvet drifts above the bed by breakfast.
Now, methane is whiffy. As a good wife, I am diplomatic. Say nowt, and reach for the can of Odour-No-More, but for two days, life in our living room became a tad tense.
There was a distinct pong. There was little doubt in my mind where that little whiff was coming from. I said nothing, and pulled in the big battalions on the scented front. Febreze, plug-ins and scented candles were deployed.
To my annoyance, he didn’t say a word. We both just sat there staring at the telly, ignoring The Whiff.
He said nothing, because he thought the fault, dear reader, was mine. Women, I sternly told him, never pollute the air like that. This is, of course, a lie. But since we now have a Prime Minister who has elevated lying to an art form, by heck, I say let's have a ball and all join in.
Hold on. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t me. And The Whiff was gathering in strength like a lurking political scandal.
In the last episode of ‘Life with a Crazed Scottish Woman and her Yorkshire Husband’, a mouse invaded our home. It was completely ignored by our cat, but I thought I’d put up a vigorous defence, chasing the scampering menace out the door.
Of course, I hadn’t. It had vanished. And now we knew roughly where it was. Inside the sofa.
This was the source of the Great Stink.
Something had to be done, but what? I love that big, squishy corner sofa. It’s well made. It’s also not easy to take apart.
We both stood and stared at it. I suggested a flamethrower. Might come in handy I said. I could burn the house down when I see a spider. He was not convinced.
A friend suggested putting up with it and just letting nature take its course. It would stop smelling in a week or so, she said, blithely. No. I was not sharing my sofa with a decomposing corpse, even if it was just a mouse. What if it was a zombie mouse, and walked during the full moon to stink up other bits of the house? Yes, I have an overactive imagination.
In the end, the Yorkshire husband, the man of wind, managed to carefully remove part of the fabric under the sofa and out fell our poor little invader. We did a brief CSI: Mouse and declared it definitely dead.
We gave it a decent burial in the bin, I went nuts with the cleaning and our home is once again sweet smelling, if a little heavy on the lavender air freshener.