You’re not aware until it swoops upon you like a Peregrine Falcon. Your companions are its prey. Swoosh and it’s done. It’s hiss is like a V12 engine ripping through the atmosphere, striking alarm in near bystanders. At other times you can, if you clench tightly, quieten it down and release the whiff in short sharp bursts and hope to hell no one notices. If everyone can just keep moving. Is that a gust of wind? Oh thank you dear gods. It’s deeply unsettling when the angel descends bringing with it a rapturous trail of malodour which it will leave behind. The trumpet sounds and it scarcely notices if you’re at a tony gathering trying to make an impression. Swoosh it snoops, swift in flight. One good thing is that no one can definitely prove it’s you. Scientists have yet to invent a biometric fit. “Who was that?” You join the chorus, yours among the pointing fingers as every nose wrinkles and all scatter asunder. It had to be done. You can’t stop the majestic fart.