10:55am Home ground

Sliding out with all the grace of an arthritic ballerina, it hummed a somber orange glow from between my legs as the bathroom light glinted on its mottled flesh. It had all been over in an instant, but the violent expulsion had left me drained, and with work on the near horizon the prospect was horrifying.

To my dismay, and already late for a train, I turned to inspect my child only to see it coiled complacently out of the water like an ice cream cone nobody wanted.

It’s viscid crust clung to the bowl as if possessed. With no toilet brush to hand I crossed my heart (for Jesus, or Allah, whatever) and flushed. And as the water cascaded powerlessly over that tenacious orange mountain I wept a single tear.

Not because I would have to miss my train, scraping excrement from the bowl of my already stained toilet.

But because I was proud of its resilience. Proud of it, and proud of me.


22:42pm Home ground, sequel poo

As the gale outside sent a gentle whisper under the bathroom door, a playful wind squeaked from betwixt my pearly cheeks.

It had presented all the hallmarks of a momentous, earth shattering event; The distended belly, the difficulty in swallowing and the niggling back ache in the preceding hours had all been pre-cursors to a painful evening shart.

With that first squeak I proceeded to deflate like some awful balloon – an angry cloud rising to the ceiling, cooling, then falling to the floor in a ghastly carpet. I could almost feel the weight of it on my bare toes.

The poo itself was little more than a handful of sodden nuggets, bobbing up and down in the water like apples ready to be grasped by children’s teeth.

But as the saying goes, Tis the journey, and not the destination that makes the man….