I've been playing violin since I was six. A couple of years ago, I was chosen to do a solo with the youth orchestra. The piece was Summer from Vivaldi's The Four Seasons. For those of you unfamiliar with this particular number, it is beautiful and eloquent. It conveys a real pathos, rage, and woe, with no small amount of angst.

As I waited in the wings, I felt confident and sure. A few little butterflies hummed lazily in my stomach, but nothing that I was worried about. I entered to applause, nodded graciously to the conductor, lifted my violin, and began to work my magic.

About halfway through the first movement, I started to have some movement of my own. It began gradually, with a slight vibration in my tummy, as if my intestines were sending me a text message: "Something strange in the neighborhood." But that was okay -- I was a professional. The show must go on. So I ignored the ominous rumble and proceeded. False alarm, I told myself. Nothing to worry about.

I made it through the first and second movements without mishap. That's when the evil entity in my stomach imposed its will upon me. It was excruciating pain. Pain beyond endurance.

A millisecond before the third movement, a ragged fart burned through my anus.

The third movement of Summer is extremely furious, fast, hot, and bothered, and my facial expressions and body language portrayed those emotions perfectly. Caught off-guard, the conductor looked askance at me; but I ignored him and struggled valiantly with the piece. The fart smelled rich, earthy, and not bad at all -- like eggs fried with heaps of butter, salt and spices.

The beast was now well and truly awake, and clamoring for my urgent attention. This time the vibration was lower down, near the bottom, as if the text message was saying, "Run! Save yourselves! She's gonna blow!" I was now a good three-quarters of the way through the piece, and fuck me if I didn't start to feel something protruding ever so slightly.

I descended into madness, wondering if there was some way I could inconspicuously leave the stage and play the solo from the toilet with no one the wiser. I could feel it -- a grumpy, bald old man, its vile brown head trying to poke out. He was hollering at the checkout girl, trying to return tinned soup, and none of the other customers could get past him. Farts kept trying to unobtrusively slip by, but he was having none of it.

One lucky, desperate fart lost its head in the Mexican standoff. It raced for freedom. "Later, dudes!" -- and it was out, wreaking vengeance on the firsts, as well as the conductor, throwing them into slight disarray at the exuberance of its exit.

Summer's finish was in sight, and I was trying to play even faster in the hopes of ending this ordeal. Ten seconds. Five seconds. I'm holding it together. Oh, blessed finish! The audience roars its approval, but I wont risk a bow and the slight opening of the arsecrack it offers. I get out of there, aware of the sniggers of some of the firsts, and give birth to the old man.

My teacher said it was the best performance she'd ever seen from me -- that I inspired her with my genuine agitation in keeping with the theme. She also said I would have made a hell of a trumpet player.