"Do you mind if I put the light on, a chroí?" He mumbled and assumed the morning crash position, a foetal curl under the covers with the duvet drawn up to protect his eyes. As I turned to the mirror to fix on a face, I heard a trumpeting pffffffft escape his arse, somewhere under the covers. He'd farted into his own cocoon. He struggled out of sleep, gasping for air, then mewled and snuffled back into his smothering stink, shielding his eyes from the 40 watts above, before reemerging from the sulphurous smell, blinking with bilious upset. And I was reminded that however much I hate mornings, my Jaffa Cake has me beat.
