I cannot believe my bad luck. Just when I thought I had impressed people in my new job by my knowledge of stuff, my contacts and my ability to spot a stray apostrophe at 50 paces, along comes the fall. The yawning chasm of doom. Or should I say crack?

Okay, it's a small, quiet place. The toilets are right next to the main area.
I need to go - and I shut the door, I do, there are two inter-connecting doors. But some bar-steward has gone into the gent's next door and left the main door open. Just as I commenced on a massive burst of methane that rocked the world and left Kim Jong IL II wondering if the US had just retaliated.

There was a slight nano-second's pause of utter silence, during which the pret-a-manger celeriac mash soup repeated on me in a rush of squealing wind.

Then I heard it: laughter. Lots of it.

Gosh - what do I do? If I come out of the toilet now, I will die. DIE of mortification. If I stay, it will look worse. And the smell is gut-wrenching. It's like a dead gerbil has gotten lodged in my lower bowels and started to rot. I have no choice but to take the shame.

In my last job, I guffed with impunity, dropping them off at the desks of people I didn't like. Here, now, I am butt-clenching with a fury that would please a Nazi. I can't let any more volcanic outbursts escape - but my stomach is aching with keeping it in. I will now be known as Farty New Girl. From the Mermaid of Moorgate, to Gutrot of Oxford Circus. Just great. Roll on Monday...