Yesterday dawned with all the promise of a delivery day at the pantry store, a day when God conspires to test our patience and, apparently, our nostrils.

Enter Mr Farty Pants Brian, our beloved delivery driver, who was in a mood so foul, the seagulls refused to circle. It took him an eternity to reverse into the car park; honestly, I’ve seen glaciers move with more urgency. By the time he finally wrestled his van into place at the back gate, we were already contemplating early retirement. But Brian had other priorities: he made us wait another five minutes while he checked his pet cam to see if his cat was surviving the apparent perils of solitude. He’s single, you see. The cat is his significant other, and, judging by the footage, the real brains behind the operation.

Just as Brian opened the back doors of the van, triumphantly, as if unlocking Aladdin’s cave, disaster struck. All the green trays came crashing out, ricocheting across the tarmac in a scene reminiscent of The Great British Tray-Off. The croquettes made a break for it, rolling merrily down the hill like tiny golden fugitives. Farty Pants Brian was not amused. In fact, he looked one flat cap away from a full-scale meltdown.

After we’d finished the great tray roundup (which I’m convinced should be an award-winning sport), Brian dragged the delivery inside. Dazzle Dutchess Debbie and I took our usual posts behind the veg packing table, scrutinising each item to make sure only the finest made it into our pantry.

And then, as Brian lumbered past us, he unleashed a fart so loud that I swear the root vegetables vibrated. It was less a fart and more a declaration of independence. I’m fairly certain he shat his pants, and the smell confirmed it. Brian, bless him, made no effort to hide his pride (or his emissions). In that moment, in that moment, the legend of Farty Pants Brian’s character was born.

I turned to D.D. Debbie and declared, ‘This is the next storyline. I couldn’t make this up if I tried.’

D.D. Debbie and me started laughing so loud we heard, “What are you two laughing at? All I can hear is you two cackling!” That’s when I replied, “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

And so, dear reader, here we are, another day, another tale from the front lines of the pantry, where the only thing more volatile than the deliveries is Brian’s digestive system.

Smell you later, Brian!

Kate x

Silly Disclaimer: No croquettes were harmed in the making of this blog post, though Brian’s dignity may never recover. All farts described herein are entirely real and not the result of special effects. Please read with an open mind and a peg for your nose.