Obsessed with Poo

Ever since the arrival of The Boy 13 days ago, I have developed an obsession with Poo. No, not the Pooh Bear variety, I mean Poo as in No2.

It has been the topic of great daily discussion at home and more so when I visit The Boy's previous home, where it gets discussed in minute detail. Someone has even written a book on the subject, believe it or not! I think it's called 'Always look after number two!'

My daughter L could tell you a funny story. In her teens, she worked at an equestrian centre and lived on site in a caravan, complete with chemical toilet. As you would imagine, it needed to be emptied on a regular basis and, thankfully, there was somewhere to deposit the contents just a short drive from where her caravan was situated. This procedure filled her with dread and embarrassment so she would only allow it to take place as the light was fading. Hmmm. You're ahead of me now, I think. Off we drove with the chemy loo in the boot of the car; sun roof, rear hatch, all windows - and anything else that would allow ventilation - wide open. We covered our mouths and noses as best we could and avoided speaking to one another. The road (dirt track - no pun intended) was very bumpy and uneven so we had to go slowly thanks to the precariously balanced cargo in the boot. The last thing we wanted was for that to topple over..... So, on arrival at the dumping destination we struggled to unload the chemy loo without spillage then looked for a suitable place to empty it. The light was fading fast, hampering our progress. The task was left to me to perform and I became very mindful of where my feet were in relation to the flow! By now it was dark and I had no intention of using Braille, hands or anything attached to my person to determine whether or not I had got it right!

Mission accomplished, we headed back to the caravan with all ventilation modes still fully employed, but at least we could speak now. Strange, though, how some aromas stay with you lodged for hours or even days in the nostrils.

How much simpler things were in my yacht-racing days when all we had was a bucket labelled on one side 'Le Pissoir' and on the other, 'Le shittoir'. The down side was in being the only female crew member with four guys on board. After using said recepticle, when one was coming back up on deck with the bucket, out of necessity, being held out of the hatch first four guys would gaze at its contents and declare, "All that and from such a small girl!!"

DDD, you want to know what embarrassment is? It can be more than just a chemy loo!