Sunday morning, September eighteen, girlfriend’s flat (flatmates in)

Of course one would prefer home territory for this crucial event, but alas today it could not be so. Given these circumstances I was naturally hoping for a clandestine transmission – no fireworks. A posture that would best aid a secretive evacuation was chosen – sadly today was not a day for embellishment.

As my anus shyly relaxed it seemed for a moment that all was well – then the turmoil began. The defiant poo was clearly not coming out without  a bang, its ferocious howls preventing me from hearing whether this fermented kebab was hitting the water or being plastered hideously along the length of the concave bowl of this foreign toilet. Of course, any opportunity of adjustment was denied.

Standing up to survey I expected a scene of devastation, but surprisingly it seemed this mornings offering had been all bark and no bite.

Below me were only a lonely three maltesers bobbing harmlessly in a lightly discoloured broth.

Turd Hughes

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