For several months, I blamed the radiator.
Our bedroom has always made small noises as it cools. My wife is able to sleep through them. I tend to lie awake, identifying which parts of the house will eventually require money.
The new sound was brief and rather apologetic.
I bled the radiator that Sunday.
For a while, this appeared to help.
Then, in February, I attended a conference in Birmingham. The hotel had underfloor heating.
At 3.14am, beneath a duvet of exceptional quality, the sound returned.
There are moments when a man must revise his understanding of his circumstances.
I switched on the bedside lamp.
Nothing appeared unusual. I waited.
A second, smaller note emerged.
There was no longer any reasonable basis for involving the hotel.
I did what most men do when confronted with an intimate health concern: I monitored it privately until it began affecting my marriage.
My wife noticed the extra laundry first.
‘Why are you washing perfectly clean underpants?’
‘I’m establishing something.’
She accepted this. After twenty-two years, she has developed a sensible threshold for supplementary questions.
I kept a diary. Time, duration, suspected triggers. The early entries were cautious. By March, I had introduced a column for timbre.
Certain patterns emerged. The condition was most active after lunch and during periods when I was trying to make a favourable impression. It remained completely absent throughout a difficult conversation with our builder, then interrupted my attempt to thank him.
Eventually, I told my wife.
She listened without speaking.
‘Are you sure it’s you?’
I said I was.
‘Because we’ve had mice.’
I explained the hotel.
She took a moment to absorb the loss of this alternative.
The consultant called it penile flatus.
‘Sometimes known as penitent wind,’ he added.
I asked why.
He gave me a sympathetic look.
‘You’ve heard it.’
There was something immensely reassuring about being understood so quickly.
He asked whether the emissions were voluntary, whether they occurred in company, and whether I had noticed any tendency towards harmony.
I mentioned a recent incident at Evensong.
‘Did you join in deliberately?’
‘Absolutely not.’
He underlined something.
Apparently, many men live with the condition for years before seeking help. Some believe it is a normal part of ageing. Others assume a colleague is responsible.
‘Can it be treated?’
‘It can be accommodated.’
I recognised the distinction. We had recently had a similar conversation about my mother.
The practical adjustments were modest.
I stopped wearing corduroy after discovering that it lends the sound an authority it does not deserve. At work, I began leaving a little space between agenda items.
My wife proved wonderfully practical. If she heard something in a restaurant, she would move a glass.
Once, during a particularly prolonged episode, she moved the whole table.
What troubled me most was the apparent emotion.
Ordinary wind is seldom burdened by self-awareness. This sounded as though it had reflected on its conduct and found it wanting.
I could be sitting perfectly happily in the garden and receive, from within my trousers, a small expression of profound regret.
For what?
I had begun asking myself this question far too often.
The breakthrough came at a support group in Chelmsford.
Eight men. Tea. A plate of biscuits no one initially wanted to approach.
Our facilitator introduced himself, then waited courteously for a gentleman near the window to finish.
‘Sorry,’ the gentleman said.
‘You don’t need to apologise,’ said the facilitator.
‘I wasn’t.’
For the first time in months, I laughed without checking whether I had started something.
I still have difficult days.
There are places where I feel conspicuous: libraries, lifts, the minute before a wedding begins.
But my wife no longer moves the glass every time.
Sometimes she simply rests her hand on mine.
Last Sunday, we sat together through a long and uneventful lunch. As the plates were cleared, a single soft note emerged.
My wife looked at me.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said.