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.
Splosh.
"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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