Ibiza 2 - plane toilets and babies' bums

Now, before I crawled gratefully into my bed last night (I still have that cold) I had got to the point where we had finally got on the plane and could breathe a sigh of relief. Or so I thought.

Pork Chop had been merrily farting for England all the while we were in the security queue. The smell was quite ripe and it was most embarrassing. She was clearly due for a change of nappy sooner rather than later. Yet, because of our late mad dash to the plane we never had a chance to stop anywhere to remove the offending item. Pork Chop was not in the least bit bothered by the state of her bottom - she never really is - but once on the plane, seat belt signs illuminated, she started to get a bit tetchy.

"Give her some boob," said The Other Half helpfully. So in the confines of the seat I duly let her latch herself on. Now here is a curious thing. Often when I give her that first early morning breast feed it really seems to get my bowels moving to the point where on occasion I have had to dash to the toilet with Pork Chop still attached and finish breastfeeding her there. On the plane just about to take off I was suddenly aware of the familiar sensation but without the luxury of dashing to the nearest WC. What to do? My stomach was in knots and I was sweating profusely as the contents of my bottom continued their relentless march towards their exit despite my best efforts to keep them in. I began tapping my foot maniacally on the floor, twitching like some sort of fool, in a vain attempt to keep my mind occupied and my bottom from exploding. The seconds ticked by so slowly. "What's the matter with you?" said the other half. "I need to go to the toilet, I'm turtling," I hissed. He looked at me incredulously, "You can't go for a shit in a plane toilet, that's disgusting." But I didn't have much choice in the matter - it was use a tiny convenience 36,000ft in the sky or soil myself and endure even more discomfort and huge amounts of embarrassment.

Bong, and the seatbelt signs finally went off. I almost fell out of my chair with relief and shoved Pork Chop on The Other Half while half running down the aisle to make sure I was first in the loo. The wave of relief that swept over me as I sat on the metal seat was wonderful. It could have been a well-used Portakabin at Glastonbury for all I cared.

Two minutes later it was Pork Chop's turn to be bundled in and with much shoving and fumbling her bottom was also duly cleaned and encased in a new nappy. Surprisingly she hadn't actually done the same as me and for her it was just farts all the time. But with the poo panic over and less than two hours to touchdown the holiday could really begin.