Caught short

I haven’t done it since I was a child. Stuck on the side of the motorway I remember the pitiful cry coming from behind the bushes. It was my sister.

“Go and see what she’s doing.” My step mother said to me.

“Why me.” I huffed. I wasn’t my sisters keeper, why did I always have to go and fetch her.

Reluctantly I left the car to the sound of the radio playing Dr Hook, I remember it because it was that song that my step mother hated and dad would sing just to annoy her.

Me, I was a walking bladder. I could hold myself for hours, there was no way I was going behind a bush. The yearly trip to Cornwall would take us 7 hours and we stopped at least 3 times. For those of you that are old enough to remember, service stations were nonexistent. You would be pointed towards a door around the side of the petrol station, the WC inevitably perfumed with the scent of truckers muck. I would rather wait and have the security of a locked door and hold my breath rather than go behind a bush. But Deb had been caught short and was practically screaming for my father to stop the car to allow her to go. She had rushed out and disappeared into the field whilst we waited. Dr Hook started their chorus, “Everybody’s making it, making, making it, everybody’s making it big…” when my step mother opened the car door to get away from my dads caterwauling.

The cry for help was more of a “arghhhhh,” than a “heeeellllp,” and Carol my stepmother instantly turned on me, “go see what has happened to your sister.”

So there I was reluctantly, as I’ve said, rounding the corner into the field. Oh what a delicious sight. Up to her knees in mud, sunken with her knickers glued in mud, hands arms and elbows covered in mud, did I mention the mud. (Raises hysterical laugh)

So you see the idea of going behind a bush for me is a complete no brainer, until the other day.

As you get older your bladder is one of the first things to give way. Children, clamps, and old age all take there toll. Oh yer, clamps. For those of you not old enough or of the more delicate gender, us here older ladies have this cold metal clamp shoved up inside us, cranked open and left with our legs in the most indecent position whilst a nurse scrapes away a layer of skin from in between our bits. All in the name of health care. After all of that it’s no wonder our bladders aren’t as strong as they aught to be.

I blame the dog, and the fact is that as a dog owner I am now absolutely petrified of having my car windows smashed in by a do gooder hippy. I would never leave my dog in a warm car in summer in a car park. But I do and will leave my dog in the car with the window slightly open, under a tree in a car park in shade on a cool day. But the other day wasn’t one such day. It was hot, bloody hot. So I packed a lunch and a coffee and set off on my 4 hour drive. Car sprayed with stay calm doggy lavender and dog bed strapped in the back seat with dog secured we got under way. The only thing I didn’t recon on was needing a widdle. Dog lead, check, dog treats, check, collapsible dog bowl, check. Disposable collapsible adult sized portable toilet, nope.

We stopped at our usual service station and went for our walk around the secret path around the back of the Travel Inn. After the walk I would normally deposit the dog back into the car and dive to the services grab a coffee and go for the widdle. The realisation that I wouldn’t get the luxury of a service station cubicle dawned on me half way around the path that wound its way around the pond.

Now I’m all for multiple choice. I passed more exams because I was lucky with multiple choice that if I had to write an essay so this multiple choice was going to be easy.

When caught short in the woods should you…
A) Drop’em and go
B) Hold it and hope
C) Risk a broken window and kidnapped dog

No brainer once again, hold it and hope, and I did, but you know that when you decide not to do something it plays on your mind until you do it.

I know it’s the thought that counts, and I don’t know about you but I get mithered, take the hoovering, I can put it off for an age, trust me, it’s the last job on my list, not least because I’m a great believer that if you dust the dust falls to the floor, so hoovering should be left until everything else is done. And I think about it, a lot, honestly, and as they do say it’s the thought that counts, so I must be doing something right because I think about it so much. Not that I get around to doing it.

We had passed the half way mark and the foliage was getting thicker. Pippa had done her bit and I was proudly carrying the doings of her bowels. Why proudly, because I clear up after my dog, and I get the right hump with those that don’t. I’m an eco warrior, I don’t leave shit to decompose naturally in the woods, oh no, I put it in a plastic bag that will take months to degrade and leave residue behind and put it in a plastic bin that will outlive even me. Irony!

As I said it was the dogs fault, she was leaving p-mails everywhere, every three seconds, there she was back end down, one leg partially cocked and dribbling. The urge to widdle got stronger.

I checked, no one around, no mud, no nettles, no spiders webs. The thought of pulling up me undies with a spider in them was another reason why I had become super bladder, but not this time.

It’s an art form the female squat, especially when one is wearing jeans. Knees bent, bum out, but slightly up, legs wide for stability, and relief. What I didn’t expect was the dog. The look was one of complete shock and confusion. She rushed over as if to say, “mum, mum, you ok mum,” she almost knocked me clean off my feet. Then she stopped and backed up as the hot wet stream hit the ground, sounding like the Niagara Falls. Her nose twitched and she lowered the whole front of her body as though she was about to jump on me. So there I was, not just worried about some good looking lorry driver butting in on my ablutions but now I had a confused Staffy cross to deal with.

She stood up much to my relief just as the last drips hit the dirt. Oh no, no tissue, shake and shake again, and…”Pip, come out from under my…” Her fascination with my wastage was just gross. I called, bribed her with a treat, shouted as I struggled to do my jeans up. She sniffed, and to my complete relief didn’t quite put her nose in the puddle. Her delicate amazing ability to walk over anything without touching it came in to play as she squatted and added her own splash. She looked up and gave me that broad Staffy grin that the breed is famous for. She approved of my scent.

We strolled out into the clearing to find two women that worked in the hotel out the back laughing. They turned and smiled and we exchanged greetings. I must have looked like a beetroot on heat I blushed so much.

What if they….

It’s not even worth thinking about.

 

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