14:32pm. Salt’s Mill Cafe toilets

A few gentle nudges and gravity did the rest: the slightly higher than average toilet seat had greatly facilitated the easy evacuation of my turgid stool. The majority of the poo was more than happy to play ball, but I knew I had more in me, and that it wasn’t coming out without a fight.

The biggest problem I faced was that I had selfishly chosen the disabled toilet for my offering, and at the mid-point of the poo I was interrupted by the rantings of an insane woman and her no doubt obnoxious child.

I wouldn’t, nay couldn’t be disturbed at this crucial time. In anger I hurled my shoe at the door and gurgled an obscene, foamy fart in the foul woman’s direction.

The rasping trump had been the catalyst; with it followed the sticky remains of yesterday’s pub lunch. Coated by the usual few moulted pubic hairs the turd looked like the putrifying, maggoted corpse of a drowned rat.
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