Thursday, January 10, 2008

On your family possessing a Poo Radar

On your family possessing a Poo Radar

Every time.

Every bloody time.

The second I park my bottom on the toilet seat with a good book, you can virtually guarantee that there will either be a knock on the door - or, having forgotten to throw the bolt across - the door swinging open to allow an intruder into my little world of poo.

It's like they've got a radar.

A poo radar.

A poo radar that goes 'ping' when they detect their father having a poo.

We are a two-bog household. Yet, there I am, parked on the shitter, and the door will swing open to the words "I need a pee".

Last week was the final straw.

I had been looking forward to this one.

All day.

A poo nutured from its very genesis as nutty slack, right up to the moment of no return as a walloping great log.

A brown trout that would - once released into the nation's subterranean waterworld - swim its way to meet its fellow floaters at Wyke Regis water treatment works, as I sat, wooden seat leaving a round mark on my peachy pink buttocks, reading on the early life of comedian Tommy Cooper.


"Jus' like that."

And so it proved - the second best poo I had ever had in my life (the best ever being what fellow blogger Balders would have called '18 inches of ferro-concrete' released into the wild via a hotel toilet in Istanbul), - so chunky that I gave serious consideration to putting it on my Flickr stream - when the door opened to reveal the unrepentant face of the boy Scaryduck Junior, his Poo Radar pinging like there was no tomorrow.

I am afraid I lost it somewhat.

"I need a pee," he said.

"I bet you do, son. I bet you do. But tell me, boy, have you ever seen the Blue Goldfish?"

He replied in the negative, a statement which may contain traces of lie.

No matter. He's now seen the Blue Goldfish.

Shame: It is mine.

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