Wednesday, 6 September 2017

Pooh - no not Bear.




If you are squeamish or eating then maybe read this a little later.


Over a cuppa this morning Stevie told me a less than salubrious tale. His mate at the Golf club was in the loo taking a dump. Yeh I had to stop there too cos I am not a fan of shitting anywhere but at home, but he found himself in the cubicle with his pants at his ankles and he spotted something amiss. Not in his knickers, but on the floor, wedged into a corner. Now I reckon it takes quite a brave soul to investigate an unidentified lump of strange, wedged into the corner of a public loo, even if that loo is at a golf club, so this fella must be from hardy stock.

He did a bit of a poke about, with what was not revealed - maybe a 4 iron or a wood? but presumably that was after he had finished his business and had pulled up his pants. His investigation revealed a fully loaded pair of undies. Well how's that for well and truly yukky? And then he was in a quandary, should he pick up the poohy mess and be the good Samaritan or should he kicked it all carefully back from whence it came and pretend he hadn't seen it? For me maybe the third option would have been to lose my lunch over the top of it all to camouflage it, and then drive quickly home for a weep and a little lie down, and maybe a Valium if only I had some.

What would you have done?

And what would you have done had you been the knicky-noo loader?

I reckon most people don't give long thought to this sort of a problem, but as shitting urgency is perhaps the least favourable side effect of my meds, and I have been caught unawares miles from my own loo, I have a little emergency plan swimming in the back of my mind.

About once a month, I try not to travel many metres from home, but there is no forewarning to the impending disaster, it strikes without fanfare or notice.

Yesterday I was enjoying a visit with my lovely Girl and all of a sudden it was the afternoon from hell, especially as there is one loo in her rather small flat and when I needed to go, woe-be-tide anyone between me and the porcelain. At one point, my darling Boy was in the shower and had to dart out, dripping wet, draped in a towel. It all became quite comical.

I wondered if I was gonna make it home.

I had a sanguine plan. If I did shit myself while scooting down the M1 at 110 km per hour, I would just pull over when I could, take off as much affected clothing as possible and clean myself as best I could, and then sit naked arsed on a piece of newspaper and finish driving home. Yeh I would have dumped the mess against the guard rail. They weren't my favourite shorts anyway.

But had I had a little oopsie at my Golf Club I would NOT have kicked the offending pile into a corner. I'd have felt obliged to scoop it all up and chuck it in the bin, although I suppose then I'd have run the very real chance of being caught with my hands full, by Murphy would predict, my least favourite person, and he'd have gone out spruiking the details and no-one would have ever shaken my hand again.

Shit is like Vegemite. It's bloody remarkable just how far it spreads.