Thankfully, as a society we’re rather shy about pooing.

It would be unpleasant and, to say the least, controversial, if the fans on Murry Mount started publicly plopping into shopping bags so as not to miss a moment of the action. The police would probably be called. I don’t think even the queen could get away with pooing in a bag, no matter how interminable the state occasion.

It hasn’t always been this way, though. Back in Roman times they lined up in rows in communal conveniences. The chorus of bottoms must have been cacophonous. One wonders if they ever developed a way to create music with their bottoms, sort of like bell ringing. I like to think they did. Whatever the case, nowadays we prefer to poo in private.

Most of us, anyway.

We’re on holiday. We’re sitting with friends outside a delightful cafe in a delightful French town eating ice cream. The sun is shining. Everything is lovely.

Suddenly someone wonders where our son is. After a moment’s panic we realise that he’s under the table.

“You all right son?” I ask. He’s crouching behind a table leg. There’s a haunted look in his eyes. After a moment a small, strained squeaking sound comes from his bottom, followed quickly by an odour. We hope our friends haven’t smelled it.

“How’s your banana split?” We ask them. As they answer our son lets out another fart and a long, pained groan.

“Is he all right?” The friend asks.

“Yes.” We say. “He’s fine.” He groans again agonisingly.

“You OK, son?” We ask.

“No.” He says, hugging the table leg. We smile at our friends. He grimaces, mumbling incoherently. The table starts to rock as his moaning and groaning gets loader. It’s like we’re taking part a farty seance.

A few minutes later the entire cafe has been swamped by the smell of my sons bottom.

Our friends are very nice about it, and luckily none of the locals call the police. I’m not entirely sure why. I’m tempted to. Or an ambulance maybe.

Perhaps they’ll change his nappy.