I'm on an evening shift, at a point where I've done all my work and can now peruse the internet whilst a Drink Impaired Driver's group plays out in one of the meeting rooms. My job now is to be here in case of an emergency. If that panic alarm goes off I have to go in there to assess the situation and decide whether the police/ambulance/fire brigade need calling (I'm probably not the best person to do this given my laid back approach to most things).
But as it happens I find myself in a bit of an emergency, in need of a plumber. I am currently on a break from flushing the toilet and waiting for the water level to go down. After nearly a year of inadequate bowel movements I have finally got my poo-jo back and have been blocking toilets here, there and everywhere. Mainly at work. The week before last I managed to do a turd so large I flushed five times to no avail. That day I was doing a split shift so I went home for a few hours and then came back. On visiting the toilet later that evening I saw my numerous flushes had made little impact on the brown torpedo and there is no doubt it had been used since my encounter with it. It took a further toilet brush attack and a few more flushes to get it down.
Tonight I have managed a similar feat. I went for a number two about but did not think to check if it had gone down. I had to go again at and on lifting the lid saw my extravagant use of toilet paper had not made it down an hour and a half before. I didn't think to flush it before attempting another evacuation so when flushing it afterwards I managed to cause an upsurge of water and the view of two poos too large for the meagre toilet bowl to take. A few flushes and toilet brushes have made no impact and after staring at the water level for a few minutes it looked like it wasn't going down. I thought perhaps it may be a case of a watched bog never unblocks so I came downstairs to give it some space to do its business.
I thought I may as well comment on the whole fiasco while I wait.
I shall now go and see if any progress has been made. (I also need another poo - I wonder if all the chocolate I've eaten today is causing this excessive amount of excrement)...
I have been defeated. Not only by the toilet refusing to unblock but also the fact it has been discovered by someone in the building who has taken the time to fashion a 'toilet blocked!' sign and found some sellotape to stick it up. (Sadly I have no camera phone to document this turn of events) The annoying thing is I didn't realise this staff member was still in the building and there's a chance he'll have heard me speeding my way up the stairs to cause the vandalism. I am crossing my fingers this doesn't encourage an email to be sent out to the entire building in the morning.
I just never learn do I?
p.s. I used another toilet for my 3rd poo of the evening and managed not to block it. That's one less 'toilet blocked exclamation mark' sign that needs making.
Showing posts with label poo humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poo humour. Show all posts
Thursday, 10 March 2011
Monday, 29 March 2010
Alliteration Aplenty
Last night I unexpectedly produced a pong-free poo which was doubly fantastic because it came out at a boy’s house and therefore the normal fears of causing asphyxiation, and/or repulsion, on him entering the bathroom too soon after I had vacated it were left redundant. I look forward to seeing if future faeces are fragrance free or whether this was just a once in a lifetime occurrence. If it was merely an odour oversight then I will be sad I never got to share it with anyone. Rest assured should it happen again and you are within a one mile radius you will be expected to attend a viewing/sniffing (and that includes you, boy whose house I was at).
Friday, 15 January 2010
The Unbalanced and Broody Babysitter
For some time now I have been quite broody and it seems babies are more frequently popping out of people I know, which is taking the broodiness to new heights.
In August last year the opportunity arose to look after one such child, the fruit of Victoria Thompson’s boss’s loins.
I was delighted, and a bit shocked, when I heard the news that he was including me in the babysitting duties because although he knows me quite well 'digitally' (his choice of word not mine) he’d only met me twice in real life – once when I brought him an ice-lolly because he was working late at the weekend (good impression) and the other time when I was having a mental breakdown on the grass outside his work (not so good) – but as the date came closer the fear set in…
I have a theory that babies, like cats and dogs, can sense evil. I am not saying that I am evil but just that I might be and don’t know it yet. This particular concern has been highlighted by the film Antichrist (I have a habit of taking films personally). Any logical person would have the same thoughts, no? Just me? Well anyway I was worried about meeting Luca because he had the potential to alert everyone in the vicinity that I am the devil.
When I explained this to Vic on the way there, doing my best to hold back the tears, she told me not to worry. She told me that I’m one of the nicest people she knows and I felt guilty so I told her I’d done some pretty mean things when I was little. (I didn't give her any examples but I'll give you one now... When I was seven I went to an all girls' boarding school and they started to introduce boys. The first one to move into our building came to the room I shared with my best friend to give her The Little Mermaid on video as a gift. I think I was threatened by him making the moves on her so I grabbed it and threw it on the floor exclaiming, "She already has this one!" I still feel bad about this especially as I don't think she did have the film.) Vic looked at me funnily and said that anything under the age of ten doesn’t count and that it was probably not a good idea to tell her boss and his girlfriend of my concerns given this was the first time they’d be leaving their three month old first born.
Despite her reassurance I kept my distance from the wee one until the parents had departed for their date, when I felt it was safer to test the water. Also I get embarrassed chatting to babies or young kids when grown-ups are around because I tend to talk to them like they’re adults, and occasionally in this weird voice that my high school boyfriend used to do when talking to his dog, and sometimes me.
Before they left they informed us that Luca only poos once a week. You can imagine I was quite upset by this - I wish they'd told me to sit down before delivering such bad news. However after his bottle he did do some tremendous farting that led us to believe a poo had been deposited. A special treat given the disappointment on hearing of his infrequent bowel movements. Nappy open, we saw it had been a trick played by a particularly stinky fart. It took about half an hour to work out how to get the sticky bits on the nappy to work and also to get the nappy to sit like he wasn’t a gangster with his crotch by his knees. I say we - most of the nappy work was being done by Vic - I was just hanging over the side of the bed dangling my magical necklace in his face to distract him from the indignity of it all.
Perhaps the chiming necklace I was wearing had distracted Luca from outing me because if he sensed any evil he didn't say anything about it. He did, however, mistake my body for a bed and my finger for a nipple. But as I've been mistaken for a prostitute on more than one occasion I'll take being mistaken for a bed and a nipple as a compliment.
After his nap and some food (milk for Luca, meatballs for us), and once we'd worked out which way round to put him in the pram, we took him for a walk in the park and felt how a proud lesbian couple must feel with Luca chatting away to himself in the way only babies that can't talk do. He soon fell asleep and I envied him. If I had someone to push me around in a pram maybe I'd get some decent sleep.
When the frantic parents returned we left them to do some serious catching up. As we walked to the station I text a guy I been on a few dates with telling him I'd been babysitting and "Please can you lend me some sperm so I can have one?" I am aware this is not the sort of thing you say to a guy if you want him to stick around but wait...
He replied straight back saying, "What you doing tonight?"
I have never know someone so keen to lend their seeds for an artificial insemination extravaganza. Maybe he just thought it was the modern way of asking for sex. If that was the case he didn't get what he wanted and neither did I.
I am still accepting donations so do get in touch.
In August last year the opportunity arose to look after one such child, the fruit of Victoria Thompson’s boss’s loins.
I was delighted, and a bit shocked, when I heard the news that he was including me in the babysitting duties because although he knows me quite well 'digitally' (his choice of word not mine) he’d only met me twice in real life – once when I brought him an ice-lolly because he was working late at the weekend (good impression) and the other time when I was having a mental breakdown on the grass outside his work (not so good) – but as the date came closer the fear set in…
I have a theory that babies, like cats and dogs, can sense evil. I am not saying that I am evil but just that I might be and don’t know it yet. This particular concern has been highlighted by the film Antichrist (I have a habit of taking films personally). Any logical person would have the same thoughts, no? Just me? Well anyway I was worried about meeting Luca because he had the potential to alert everyone in the vicinity that I am the devil.
When I explained this to Vic on the way there, doing my best to hold back the tears, she told me not to worry. She told me that I’m one of the nicest people she knows and I felt guilty so I told her I’d done some pretty mean things when I was little. (I didn't give her any examples but I'll give you one now... When I was seven I went to an all girls' boarding school and they started to introduce boys. The first one to move into our building came to the room I shared with my best friend to give her The Little Mermaid on video as a gift. I think I was threatened by him making the moves on her so I grabbed it and threw it on the floor exclaiming, "She already has this one!" I still feel bad about this especially as I don't think she did have the film.) Vic looked at me funnily and said that anything under the age of ten doesn’t count and that it was probably not a good idea to tell her boss and his girlfriend of my concerns given this was the first time they’d be leaving their three month old first born.
Despite her reassurance I kept my distance from the wee one until the parents had departed for their date, when I felt it was safer to test the water. Also I get embarrassed chatting to babies or young kids when grown-ups are around because I tend to talk to them like they’re adults, and occasionally in this weird voice that my high school boyfriend used to do when talking to his dog, and sometimes me.
Before they left they informed us that Luca only poos once a week. You can imagine I was quite upset by this - I wish they'd told me to sit down before delivering such bad news. However after his bottle he did do some tremendous farting that led us to believe a poo had been deposited. A special treat given the disappointment on hearing of his infrequent bowel movements. Nappy open, we saw it had been a trick played by a particularly stinky fart. It took about half an hour to work out how to get the sticky bits on the nappy to work and also to get the nappy to sit like he wasn’t a gangster with his crotch by his knees. I say we - most of the nappy work was being done by Vic - I was just hanging over the side of the bed dangling my magical necklace in his face to distract him from the indignity of it all.
Perhaps the chiming necklace I was wearing had distracted Luca from outing me because if he sensed any evil he didn't say anything about it. He did, however, mistake my body for a bed and my finger for a nipple. But as I've been mistaken for a prostitute on more than one occasion I'll take being mistaken for a bed and a nipple as a compliment.
After his nap and some food (milk for Luca, meatballs for us), and once we'd worked out which way round to put him in the pram, we took him for a walk in the park and felt how a proud lesbian couple must feel with Luca chatting away to himself in the way only babies that can't talk do. He soon fell asleep and I envied him. If I had someone to push me around in a pram maybe I'd get some decent sleep.
When the frantic parents returned we left them to do some serious catching up. As we walked to the station I text a guy I been on a few dates with telling him I'd been babysitting and "Please can you lend me some sperm so I can have one?" I am aware this is not the sort of thing you say to a guy if you want him to stick around but wait...
He replied straight back saying, "What you doing tonight?"
I have never know someone so keen to lend their seeds for an artificial insemination extravaganza. Maybe he just thought it was the modern way of asking for sex. If that was the case he didn't get what he wanted and neither did I.
I am still accepting donations so do get in touch.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
You Give Them Somewhere to Live and This is How They Repay You...
Shortly after my masculinity was thrown into question by a mere ladybird my room was invaded by even more of them. Because I now knew their identity I let them go about their business because everyone knows ladybirds are a friendly bunch. The very same day I was on the way to my local Tescos in Highgate when I came across a massive swarm of them on a street corner. I have never in my life seen such a sight. And it was highly inconvenient - I had to walk on the road to avoid them. I was later informed that there'd been an invasion of Asian ladybirds in Britain. I took this information and did nothing with it. A couple of days later I woke up to find at least 13 ladybirds having a snooze at the top of my curtains. I shrugged and left them to it.
This was in September.
Come November they were still wandering about and it was getting to the point where I was growing quite fond of them and able to tell some of them apart. I distinctly remember wondering if perhaps there was something wrong with the way my brain was wired.
Towards the end of November I went to The Wrestlers pub with my friend Al who lives down the road. One of the ladybirds decided he wanted to come along and I noticed him wandering about on my scarf and stupidly drew Al's attention to it. I felt a bit embarrassed - I was like the pigeon lady in Mary Poppins but with ladybirds instead of filthy ones.
Back in my bedroom I accidentally broke one's wings by not seeing it and squashing it with my Johnny Vegas monkey (an excellent boyfriend substitute as his arms are really heavy so you get great hugs without the hassle that would come if he were real). I was in tears because I knew I'd have to put it out of its misery. I was sat there eyes brimming saying out loud, "I'm really sorry, please forgive me" as, after waiting for ten minutes hoping it would recover, I squished it in a tissue. I felt shaken for some time afterwards.
In December things turned nasty. I started waking up covered in bites and in the most inconvenient places (wrists, ankles etc.). At first I thought it was because I'd had the window open and that mosquitoes had got in. But then I decided it was a bit cold for that. My next thought was that it was bedbugs which quite frankly is my worst nightmare. There's something really grim about the thought of something coming out of your bed and having a feast on your feet whilst you're getting a bit of shut eye. I couldn't work out why they would suddenly start biting though and my sheets were clean so there was something not quite adding up. And as a ladybird wandered past I came to the conclusion that I'd rather it was them biting me than bedbugs.
Perhaps they were getting me back for the tissue-squishing incident.
I was told that ladybirds don't bite people but when, two nights after receiving a particular bite, it swelled up ridiculously and I came down with a migraine, dizziness and nausea I thought I should look up ladybird bites on the internet. It turns out that the ladybirds in my room were indeed the Asian ladybirds who've invaded Britain. They're called Harlequin ladybirds and are known for getting all up in our ladybirds' faces and invading our houses. Word on internet street is that when food runs out they will start to bite humans. This made me happy and sad at the same time: happy that it wasn't bedbugs but sad that the LBs had turned on me. On a whim I put an over-ripe banana out for them and wasn't bitten again. I wonder whether I should be offended that they'd rather eat a bruised piece of fruit than me.
On Saturday just gone I was taking down my curtains getting ready for my move home and found out that not only do they use the top of the curtains as their bedroom but as their toilet as well. It was COVERED in tiny little poos. They were like minuscule versions of human poos. I felt like I'd found really disgusting treasure. I was quite surprised that over the whole period of their stay with me I never saw any of that yellow stuff they do. Do you remember being little and picking them up and thinking that they'd weed on you? Well I don't know if you know this but apparently that's actually blood - it's their way of playing dead so they don't get eaten.
I don't know about you but I feel like I've learnt a lot.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Man, I Feel Like a Woman
On the afternoon of Saturday 19th September 2009 I decided that I am a real man. If my giant turds, excellent DIY and bill paying skills weren't enough my masculinity was soon confirmed after having my ear chewed clean off by at least four hours worth of mindless babble. I sat there thinking to myself this must be how a man feels when a woman just talks at him about things he knows nothing about (i.e. The Hills) and/or has no interest in (i.e. The Hills)*.
I didn't know it yet but things were going to turn decidedly feminine.
Later that night I was taking a zinc tablet in my bedroom and instead of shaking it out on my hand I instead opted to throw my neck back and chuck it straight in. As my eyes went up to the ceiling I spotted a round, black thing. I wondered what it was, thinking perhaps it was a very large bit of dirt. But then it started moving. At first I thought it was a ladybird but it just seemed too big, especially given how high my ceilings are. And then it appeared to be changing shape - this thing was black and morphing and was definitely no ladybird - and that's when I decided there was undeniably a mutant bug in my room. Suddenly without warning it spread its before hidden wings and took flight landing on the door. It was such an unexpected movement that I squealed and threw my arms up in the air. This would have been much less dramatic had I not been holding a pint mug full of water at the time. I spent the next five or so minutes monitoring its location. Then, shape shifting, it moved to the top of the door and disappeared into the crack between the top and the frame. And then its wings kept appearing - huge and menacing. I was horrified. It was nearly bed time and I couldn't bear to turn off the light with this monster cavorting about the place with potentially enormous teeth and a penchant for human blood. I text Vic asking that if she was awake and not busy could I talk to her because I was having issues. She called straight away concerned that something awful had happened. Not yet Victoria, not yet! I informed her in a screechy, high pitched, decidedly girly manner that there was a peculiar creature in my room. She suggested killing it and although I was tempted I knew I couldn't. I live by the moral code that you shouldn't kill insects (unless they're in pain) even if the one in question is a mini killing machine. I got off the phone and mentally devised a plan of action: I'd wait for it to move away from the door and then run out and get a glass (the mug would not do - keeping an eye on this thing once captured would be vital) to trap it in. I eventually got out of the room and when I returned the unidentified insect was on the picture rail and then I couldn't see it anymore. If there's one thing worse than seeing a UI in your room it's knowing it's there but not being able to see it. I went towards the Sainsbury's bag that was doubling as a bin and noticed the bug was hanging out on it. With the speed of a girl on the verge of heart failure I put the glass over it feeding a Fred Astaire CD inlay underneath to stop any attempts of escape and then I took a closer look. It was only a bloody ladybird wasn't it?! In my defence it was on the yellow side of red and had more spots than is usual. I took it out to the kitchen window and tried to let it out. It wasn't having any of it and decided to stay. At least it was now in the kitchen rather than my bed.
So that wasn't the best example of my manliness but what about these?...
Once when living in a student house I refused to wash a massive house spider down the plug hole and he lived in our bath for a bit. I named him Archibald and I was quite upset when he left. (I'm under the impression he was actually murdered by one of my housemates.)
When I finished university I did a week's dance course in a London studio and found what I thought was a dung beetle on the toilet floor. I couldn't have found it in a more appropriate place. I wanted to take it to the zoo in case it had escaped but it had been crushed a little bit by the door so I decided to take it with me to nurse it back to health. I did this by sitting it on a bit of cucumber. It didn't work so I laid him to rest in a friend's garden. This same friend stamped on my dreams by informing me it was not a dung beetle but a stag beetle so probably not a zoo fugitive.
I feel I have now restored your faith in my masculinity. If I haven't then I happily challenge you to a duel. Yes I am indeed a medieval man.
* Since I wrote this (N.B. I wrote it a while ago but have only just got round to posting it) I have met two men (straight) who love The Hills. It appears I am more of a man than a man.
**Writing this I learnt that a may bug's official name is a cockchafer. I wonder why this is - a masturbation experiment gone wrong perhaps?
I didn't know it yet but things were going to turn decidedly feminine.
Later that night I was taking a zinc tablet in my bedroom and instead of shaking it out on my hand I instead opted to throw my neck back and chuck it straight in. As my eyes went up to the ceiling I spotted a round, black thing. I wondered what it was, thinking perhaps it was a very large bit of dirt. But then it started moving. At first I thought it was a ladybird but it just seemed too big, especially given how high my ceilings are. And then it appeared to be changing shape - this thing was black and morphing and was definitely no ladybird - and that's when I decided there was undeniably a mutant bug in my room. Suddenly without warning it spread its before hidden wings and took flight landing on the door. It was such an unexpected movement that I squealed and threw my arms up in the air. This would have been much less dramatic had I not been holding a pint mug full of water at the time. I spent the next five or so minutes monitoring its location. Then, shape shifting, it moved to the top of the door and disappeared into the crack between the top and the frame. And then its wings kept appearing - huge and menacing. I was horrified. It was nearly bed time and I couldn't bear to turn off the light with this monster cavorting about the place with potentially enormous teeth and a penchant for human blood. I text Vic asking that if she was awake and not busy could I talk to her because I was having issues. She called straight away concerned that something awful had happened. Not yet Victoria, not yet! I informed her in a screechy, high pitched, decidedly girly manner that there was a peculiar creature in my room. She suggested killing it and although I was tempted I knew I couldn't. I live by the moral code that you shouldn't kill insects (unless they're in pain) even if the one in question is a mini killing machine. I got off the phone and mentally devised a plan of action: I'd wait for it to move away from the door and then run out and get a glass (the mug would not do - keeping an eye on this thing once captured would be vital) to trap it in. I eventually got out of the room and when I returned the unidentified insect was on the picture rail and then I couldn't see it anymore. If there's one thing worse than seeing a UI in your room it's knowing it's there but not being able to see it. I went towards the Sainsbury's bag that was doubling as a bin and noticed the bug was hanging out on it. With the speed of a girl on the verge of heart failure I put the glass over it feeding a Fred Astaire CD inlay underneath to stop any attempts of escape and then I took a closer look. It was only a bloody ladybird wasn't it?! In my defence it was on the yellow side of red and had more spots than is usual. I took it out to the kitchen window and tried to let it out. It wasn't having any of it and decided to stay. At least it was now in the kitchen rather than my bed.
I'm not sure what got into me. Perhaps I was brainwashed by all the Hills chat.
So that wasn't the best example of my manliness but what about these?...
Once when living in a student house I refused to wash a massive house spider down the plug hole and he lived in our bath for a bit. I named him Archibald and I was quite upset when he left. (I'm under the impression he was actually murdered by one of my housemates.)
When I finished university I did a week's dance course in a London studio and found what I thought was a dung beetle on the toilet floor. I couldn't have found it in a more appropriate place. I wanted to take it to the zoo in case it had escaped but it had been crushed a little bit by the door so I decided to take it with me to nurse it back to health. I did this by sitting it on a bit of cucumber. It didn't work so I laid him to rest in a friend's garden. This same friend stamped on my dreams by informing me it was not a dung beetle but a stag beetle so probably not a zoo fugitive.
I feel I have now restored your faith in my masculinity. If I haven't then I happily challenge you to a duel. Yes I am indeed a medieval man.
* Since I wrote this (N.B. I wrote it a while ago but have only just got round to posting it) I have met two men (straight) who love The Hills. It appears I am more of a man than a man.
**Writing this I learnt that a may bug's official name is a cockchafer. I wonder why this is - a masturbation experiment gone wrong perhaps?
Monday, 11 January 2010
Update with Excuses
Yesterday I moved back to my home town "oop north" with the intention of taking a month to sit down and write. I am fully aware how neglectful I've been of my Toilet Blocker blog (excuses: I was promoted to a job that took up 100% of my working day, had no internet access in my new house and then was made redundant so was in a big head pickle) and with that in mind I've decided that I have to write something for it every day even if it's just: "Today I ate five Weetabix and had a big poo". This will probably be the content of most of my posts so you have that to look forward to.
There's a bit of a backlog of things that I've written in note form that need expanding on which will also be posted. These include the story of babysitting my friend Victoria's boss's baby, poo stories from Cornwall and the story of being terrorised by unknown creatures in my bedroom. It's going to take some real motivation on my part but it's something I've got to do or else my existence is basically pointless. Hello, dramatic!
The amount of procrastination that has already occurred whilst just writing this update is quite something. So far I've looked in my bag about four times, been to talk to the librarian to ask if my library card is out of date when I know full well that having not used it for five years that it is five years out of date and I've also flicked through a three days out of date local newspaper which has either had the majority of its pages pilfered or there's just not much to report. Given the front page story consists of a massive picture of a bus that got stuck in the snow I'm thinking it's the latter.
I will see you tomorrow with something that is hopefully more substantial.
With love and wishes of healthy bowels,
Toilet Blogger
There's a bit of a backlog of things that I've written in note form that need expanding on which will also be posted. These include the story of babysitting my friend Victoria's boss's baby, poo stories from Cornwall and the story of being terrorised by unknown creatures in my bedroom. It's going to take some real motivation on my part but it's something I've got to do or else my existence is basically pointless. Hello, dramatic!
The amount of procrastination that has already occurred whilst just writing this update is quite something. So far I've looked in my bag about four times, been to talk to the librarian to ask if my library card is out of date when I know full well that having not used it for five years that it is five years out of date and I've also flicked through a three days out of date local newspaper which has either had the majority of its pages pilfered or there's just not much to report. Given the front page story consists of a massive picture of a bus that got stuck in the snow I'm thinking it's the latter.
I will see you tomorrow with something that is hopefully more substantial.
With love and wishes of healthy bowels,
Toilet Blogger
Thursday, 2 July 2009
A Lovely Story About Poo: Number Two
There has been a lot of talk about Britney in past blogs and I feel I have been neglecting the topic of toilets. Anyone accidentally landing on the Ramblings of a Toilet Blocker blogspot could be forgiven for feeling lied to and I wouldn’t hold it against them if they sued me for false advertising.
So this blog is for them…
A few weeks ago I went for dinner with a friend, let's call her Paula, who is in a very complicated on/off relationship. She was telling us that she had been talking to her ‘lover’ on the phone whilst she was sat on the toilet doing a poo. Paula decided that it would be appropriate to tell him what she was up to and he said, ‘Nothing you could do would put me off you.’ Lovely sentiment but wait, it continues... ‘I would use your poo as toothpaste.’ I WOULD USE YOUR POO AS TOOTHPASTE, people! Now I love poo but this, my friend, is taking things too far. I draw the line at touching, eating and using it as toothpaste.
I don’t know about you but talk of number twos really does tickle me. Another friend was recently trying to explain which photo she favoured of a number that had been taken at a party. She said, ‘I love the one with me looking up like a turd.’ I did enjoy her description. Not long after this, and I can’t remember what it was I'd said to evoke this reaction, she exclaimed, ‘I’m so excited, I might need a poo.’ I tell you I laughed quite heartily at this, especially as said friend isn't really one for faecal chat. She really has drawn the short straw with me as a companion.
My supervisor Jack decided it would be a good idea to start tickling me the other week - we are all very professional where I work - and I had to shout, 'No don't!!' and explained to him that I needed a poo and that if he continued I might accidentally go on my chair. A sure fire way to stop a tickler in their tracks. It wasn’t a lie though; I really did need to go.
He was telling me that one of the bookings guys likes to use the phrase 'Chew my poo,' when clients are being demanding. I do enjoy a sentence that rhymes. I often hear the same guy cry, 'Shit the bed!' when things aren't really going to plan and a more recent one that really took my fancy was, 'Shit cakes'. I liked this because I like poo and I like cakes, a perfect pairing if ever there was one.
In May I went to my friend Alex's gig at Monkey Chews in Chalk Farm, the same place I met my poo soul mate, and I was very excited because I knew that she would be there. I hadn't seen her since that first time but she would always text me intermittently with tales from the toilet and brighten up whichever day it was she’d send them. After she and Alex had serenaded the audience nine of us were stood in a circle downstairs and the subject of poo came up practically straight away. There were a few people in the circle who I’d not met before including a girl who confided that she'd been constipated of late. I told her to try eating a salad of avocado, tomato and cucumber, which usually gets me going. At that moment I mentally distanced myself and realised I was chairing a Pooaholics Anonymous meeting. People were looking to me for anus-related advice. I finally felt like I had a purpose in life and it warmed the cockles of my heart.
Another day in May I was having bowel issues which I think may have been due to nerves (it appears I am not only an emotional eater but an emotional pooer too) as I was going to the birthday party of the object of my affection who I wasn’t convinced wanted me to attend. I spent much of the day with my least favourite of all the poo groups: diahorrea. I was waiting for my friend to meet me so we could go together and my stomach was still churning so I text her telling her if she happened to have any Immodium I would love her forever. She didn’t have any but I think I’ll probably love her forever all the same but that is not relevant to this story so I shall continue... Once inside my stomach chilled out a little but, such is the case when you’re drinking pints of water, I soon needed a trip to the lav. Disaster struck when I decided to read the door-locking instructions, that were sellotaped to the door, even though I had used the toilet various times in the past and had had no problems. Reading the instructions confused me and I managed to pull the handle off the door. I went in search of someone to help show me the way when I came across the boy I was quite fond of and so told him of my predicament. We went into the toilet and he demonstrated how to do it locking us both in and then, joy of joys, he kissed me. I will forever remember being in that overlit bathroom being kissed by someone I really liked as East 17's ‘Stay Another Day’ could be heard playing in the living room and a girl’s screams emanated from the bedroom. It was a moment when lighting concepts and the need to wee were the furthest thing from my mind. A magical moment I’m sure you’ll agree.
Passing Firetrap at Seven Dials in Covent Garden on my lunch break a few weeks ago and I was delighted to see the best window display I've ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes upon. Unfortunately they’ve now changed their display to chainsaws which are very pretty but do not rub me up aesthetically quite the same way. Luckily I got a pic in the nick of time so all is not lost.
Last week I came down from the poo toilet at work to have Mike waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase. He ran ahead of me into our office to tell Steve to stop his clock. It took me two minutes to do my business. They don’t say I have rocket sh**s for nothing!
I was just searching for this blog in my documents so I could finish editing it as I have been highly unmotivated of late and I came across a Word document containing potential blog ideas. One was so relevant to this blog I had to include it:
“Fri 4th April 2009 18:14
Just went into the loo to wash the sugar off my hands from my fourth donut of the day. I read the typed sign on the door as I went in which says, ‘Please do not poo!!!!’ and someone has written in pen in tiny writing underneath, ‘In the sink’. That amused me. It reminded me of the time I was in the Betsey Trotwood pub in Farringdon having a wee and there was a sign on the inside of the cubicle door saying, ‘Please do not poo in the toilet’ and someone had written underneath it, ‘Where would you like me to poo then? In the bin?’ Oh it did make me chuckle. Was up there as one of my most enjoyable non-poo toilet related experiences.”
Earlier today I was chatting to a friend on Google chat who told me that he was typing from his toilet (reminiscent of ‘Paula’ and her 'lover' apart from the fact I don’t want to use my friend’s poo as toothpaste) and he even typed the sound effects for me so that I could be fully involved in the experience. I helped by finishing it off with ~@~ which in the world of Google chat creates the picture of a poo! This trick was shown to me by a random American fellow I met outside a pub in the interval of a comedy night I was doing the door at. He g
ave me the greatest gift I have ever received – the gift of poomoticons. Now you have that gift don’t be scared to share it.
I hope you have enjoyed these ramblings of a toilet blocker (you’ll be pleased to know the designated poo toilet at work is getting used to my mammoth poos and doesn’t blog quite so much these days) and that you are having a lovely day.
Forever yours,
Toilet Blogger
So this blog is for them…
A few weeks ago I went for dinner with a friend, let's call her Paula, who is in a very complicated on/off relationship. She was telling us that she had been talking to her ‘lover’ on the phone whilst she was sat on the toilet doing a poo. Paula decided that it would be appropriate to tell him what she was up to and he said, ‘Nothing you could do would put me off you.’ Lovely sentiment but wait, it continues... ‘I would use your poo as toothpaste.’ I WOULD USE YOUR POO AS TOOTHPASTE, people! Now I love poo but this, my friend, is taking things too far. I draw the line at touching, eating and using it as toothpaste.
I don’t know about you but talk of number twos really does tickle me. Another friend was recently trying to explain which photo she favoured of a number that had been taken at a party. She said, ‘I love the one with me looking up like a turd.’ I did enjoy her description. Not long after this, and I can’t remember what it was I'd said to evoke this reaction, she exclaimed, ‘I’m so excited, I might need a poo.’ I tell you I laughed quite heartily at this, especially as said friend isn't really one for faecal chat. She really has drawn the short straw with me as a companion.
My supervisor Jack decided it would be a good idea to start tickling me the other week - we are all very professional where I work - and I had to shout, 'No don't!!' and explained to him that I needed a poo and that if he continued I might accidentally go on my chair. A sure fire way to stop a tickler in their tracks. It wasn’t a lie though; I really did need to go.
He was telling me that one of the bookings guys likes to use the phrase 'Chew my poo,' when clients are being demanding. I do enjoy a sentence that rhymes. I often hear the same guy cry, 'Shit the bed!' when things aren't really going to plan and a more recent one that really took my fancy was, 'Shit cakes'. I liked this because I like poo and I like cakes, a perfect pairing if ever there was one.
In May I went to my friend Alex's gig at Monkey Chews in Chalk Farm, the same place I met my poo soul mate, and I was very excited because I knew that she would be there. I hadn't seen her since that first time but she would always text me intermittently with tales from the toilet and brighten up whichever day it was she’d send them. After she and Alex had serenaded the audience nine of us were stood in a circle downstairs and the subject of poo came up practically straight away. There were a few people in the circle who I’d not met before including a girl who confided that she'd been constipated of late. I told her to try eating a salad of avocado, tomato and cucumber, which usually gets me going. At that moment I mentally distanced myself and realised I was chairing a Pooaholics Anonymous meeting. People were looking to me for anus-related advice. I finally felt like I had a purpose in life and it warmed the cockles of my heart.
Another day in May I was having bowel issues which I think may have been due to nerves (it appears I am not only an emotional eater but an emotional pooer too) as I was going to the birthday party of the object of my affection who I wasn’t convinced wanted me to attend. I spent much of the day with my least favourite of all the poo groups: diahorrea. I was waiting for my friend to meet me so we could go together and my stomach was still churning so I text her telling her if she happened to have any Immodium I would love her forever. She didn’t have any but I think I’ll probably love her forever all the same but that is not relevant to this story so I shall continue... Once inside my stomach chilled out a little but, such is the case when you’re drinking pints of water, I soon needed a trip to the lav. Disaster struck when I decided to read the door-locking instructions, that were sellotaped to the door, even though I had used the toilet various times in the past and had had no problems. Reading the instructions confused me and I managed to pull the handle off the door. I went in search of someone to help show me the way when I came across the boy I was quite fond of and so told him of my predicament. We went into the toilet and he demonstrated how to do it locking us both in and then, joy of joys, he kissed me. I will forever remember being in that overlit bathroom being kissed by someone I really liked as East 17's ‘Stay Another Day’ could be heard playing in the living room and a girl’s screams emanated from the bedroom. It was a moment when lighting concepts and the need to wee were the furthest thing from my mind. A magical moment I’m sure you’ll agree.
Passing Firetrap at Seven Dials in Covent Garden on my lunch break a few weeks ago and I was delighted to see the best window display I've ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes upon. Unfortunately they’ve now changed their display to chainsaws which are very pretty but do not rub me up aesthetically quite the same way. Luckily I got a pic in the nick of time so all is not lost.
Last week I came down from the poo toilet at work to have Mike waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase. He ran ahead of me into our office to tell Steve to stop his clock. It took me two minutes to do my business. They don’t say I have rocket sh**s for nothing!
I was just searching for this blog in my documents so I could finish editing it as I have been highly unmotivated of late and I came across a Word document containing potential blog ideas. One was so relevant to this blog I had to include it:
“Fri 4th April 2009 18:14
Just went into the loo to wash the sugar off my hands from my fourth donut of the day. I read the typed sign on the door as I went in which says, ‘Please do not poo!!!!’ and someone has written in pen in tiny writing underneath, ‘In the sink’. That amused me. It reminded me of the time I was in the Betsey Trotwood pub in Farringdon having a wee and there was a sign on the inside of the cubicle door saying, ‘Please do not poo in the toilet’ and someone had written underneath it, ‘Where would you like me to poo then? In the bin?’ Oh it did make me chuckle. Was up there as one of my most enjoyable non-poo toilet related experiences.”
Earlier today I was chatting to a friend on Google chat who told me that he was typing from his toilet (reminiscent of ‘Paula’ and her 'lover' apart from the fact I don’t want to use my friend’s poo as toothpaste) and he even typed the sound effects for me so that I could be fully involved in the experience. I helped by finishing it off with ~@~ which in the world of Google chat creates the picture of a poo! This trick was shown to me by a random American fellow I met outside a pub in the interval of a comedy night I was doing the door at. He g
ave me the greatest gift I have ever received – the gift of poomoticons. Now you have that gift don’t be scared to share it.I hope you have enjoyed these ramblings of a toilet blocker (you’ll be pleased to know the designated poo toilet at work is getting used to my mammoth poos and doesn’t blog quite so much these days) and that you are having a lovely day.
Forever yours,
Toilet Blogger
Friday, 27 March 2009
A Lovely Story About Poo
I’d been thinking a lot about faeces and whether it would be appropriate to write about them when my workmate Greg text me from our designated pooing toilet at work to tell me he was having bowel problems. Not only did I feel honoured that he would text me mid-expulsion but I also took it as a sign that it would be a loss to humankind if I didn’t write a little note about some of the eventful poo experiences I’ve had in my life …
When I was at school I went on a skiing trip to Austria. It was my 18th birthday the day we got there (this is not relevant to the story – I’m just setting the scene). One evening we went bowling – I even remember what I was wearing: a black polo neck jumper with cool cut out bits on the shoulders and little union jacks below them (also not relevant to the story). I felt a rumble in my stomach so hastened to the toilet and I’m sorry to be so graphic but it was like pooing chocolate milkshake. Not as tasty though…I’d imagine.
On my first day at my university halls of residence I christened the shared toilet on my corridor with the biggest poo you have probably ever seen in your life. This would not have been a problem had the toilet been of a sturdy nature like the ones I’d grown up with but this loo could not swallow the contents. Lucky for me a toilet brush was on hand and I eventually managed to get it down and wiped my brow with relief that I would not be known as the girl who blocked the toilet.
In my final two years I made it my mission to try and poo in every toilet on the main campus. I made a pretty good dent but failed to penetrate them all. In my last year I managed to block my house toilet with an almighty turd – one of those blockages that causes the water to surge upwards. I was living with a girl and two boys and one of them, Neil, happened to be around when it happened. I was in a rush for a lecture so I couldn’t stay to deal with it so I had to tell him what I’d done, though it was pretty obvious, and he was so lovely about it and said he wouldn’t tell the girl we lived with (his girlfriend) which I was grateful for as she loved to gossip and although I enjoy being spoken about I wasn’t really up for my giant pooscapades being the talk of Textiles that week.
A group of us from my Media Studies module used to go for these huge Malaysian meals at our friend’s mum’s house and myself and my friend Dave would weigh ourselves before and after our post meal poo. It was a fun way to pass a bit of time and to see how weighty our waste was. I’d highly recommend it in times of nothing better to do.
Last summer I went on holiday and I could hardly poo – this may have been because I don’t often eat meat and it was cold meat central in Marbella - but when I did it was like rabbit droppings. It was really quite upsetting because, as you may have observed by now, I do love a good poo. I needn’t have worried because when I returned to Angleterre, after a good sleep, I did four MASSIVE poos in one day – three of which were before midday. It was quite an occasion – a backlog if you will (‘scuse the pun). My bum certainly felt it.
Whilst on holiday, on one of our joyous trip to the supermarket, I bought some humungous and extremely delicious pains au chocolat. Because I was so hungry I placed my shopping bag on the ground whilst I got one out to eat on the journey back to the apartment. The bag was getting heavy so I lifted it in front of my stomach rather than holding it by the handles. I soon got bored of this and went back to handle holding. It was then my chum Victoria noticed I had some chocolate on my top so I licked it off. It didn’t really taste of anything though and then I took a closer look and realised it was actually bird poo that had come off the bottom of the shopping bag and in my greediness I had indulged in a bit of involuntary coprophagy. Brilliant.
This is the first time I’ve felt I could talk about this next event, which happened on 28th August 2008 in the workplace. At this point in time I was not so open about my penchant for pooing, with people at work at least. I sent an email to my flatmate, which contains within it an email sent to the whole company from the accounts assistant who also doubles up as our cleaner. I’m the one in blue:
“Oh my god I’m so secretly embarrassed...
Subject: 1st floor (Last user)
Dear all,
The person who last used the toilet on 1st floor, left it unflushed.
Please take in consideration that it is very unpleasant for anyone going to the toilet to find it like that.
Specially when there could have been a client.
Please take the care to flush, because is unfair on the next person that has to use the toilet and to clean up.
Cheers
I flushed the damn thing twice because my humongous poo blocked it and I couldn't wait for it to refill again so I left a bit of loo paper over the top of it hoping no one would notice. Good lord. I don't understand who she thinks would ever not flush a poo?!
Weird.
Hope you’re having a good day
xx”
My flatmate wrote back to tell me that I’d amused her and a few minutes later I had to write again…
“Oh no it’s getting out of hand.
Everyone has started sending accusing emails to my supervisor saying everyone is betting he did it.
He had previously sent one to Mike [he sits next to me at work] accusing him.
In the time I’ve spent writing this he has received 2 more emails from bookings team saying he's guilty and now everyone in the room is discussing the huge log!
Hahahahahaha
I cannot wait for the dust to settle on this one so I can write a blog about it.”
And now my wish has come true. Oh the liberation to be able to talk so freely about poo.
A few months ago I was at work - it was a Wednesday and less than an hour to go until home time – and the need to poo was quite apparent. Greg took this as his cue to need one too so I had to wait for him to go and for the smell to pass before I could have my turn or turd, whichever you prefer. My time finally came to sit upon the porcelain throne and what started off as a pleasant experience soon took a turn for the worse as I managed to cause an almighty blockage, the water level rising a little bit more each time I flushed it. I had to wait for what seemed like an eternity for the toilet to fill back up again and by the third flush the water was half an inch from overflowing. I realised I was fighting a losing battle. I went back downstairs to give it time to settle down. I was so embarrassed/amused that I told Mike of my predicament. About 5 minutes later (and bear in mind by this point it was way past my home time) I decided to go back up but to my dismay the cleaner/accounts assistant was cleaning the sink area. I thought I had to say something, especially given her penchant for sending out emails to the whole company when the toilet gets blocked with giant turds. So I went in and politely asked, 'Have you cleaned the toilet yet?' and she said that she hadn't so I sheepishly offered up this little nugget of information, 'Um, I've sort of blocked it, I'm so sorry!' She told me to tell the head of engineering and to say that I hadn't seen her, as he'd make her deal with it. He'd already gone home so I sent him an email:
“I'm sorry to do this to you first thing on a Thursday morning but I just came across an almighty blockage up in the toilet on the way to the library and it's on the verge of overflowing.I hope it's gone down by the time you get this.”
Did you enjoy the way I made out like it wasn't my doing? I felt that was quite ingenious. I went up to tell the accounts assistant that I'd sent him an email but she was no longer in the bathroom. I went out into the hall and heard her talking to one of the directors up the stairs who was saying something about a toilet poking tool and it dawned on me, the director OF THE ENTIRE COMPANY was going to unblock it. I closed my eyes and prayed he wasn’t told who did it because I wouldn't be able to look him in the eye again. I came back downstairs to wait it out and then went back up again: the blockage had gone without a trace. I was so relieved and emailed the head of engineering again to tell him he would not need to do any turd taming first thing on Thursday morning after all.
This morning I came into work and was telling my supervisor Steve about a lovely girl I met last night who was as enthusiastic about the pooing process and talking about poo as I am. I don’t know how we got onto the topic but once we started we just couldn’t stop. The guy who introduced us to came back to speak to us and we managed to get him in on the conversation though I’m not sure he was as in his element as we were. He soon wandered off and although our conversation turned to other things we were soon back on poo. Just as she was telling me what her favourite kind of poo was our introducer came back with someone else he wanted us to meet. We had to cease the subject and I have to say I was gutted and eager to hear her preference. The chatter turned away from toilets, at one point people were commenting on how old my phone was. The guy we’d just been introduced to had an antique camera hung around his neck and I told him my phone and his camera would probably make great friends. As I said this I jiggled my phone around in front of his camera lens as if my phone was having a chat with his camera. I’m glad most people in the circle were suitably inebriated or that may have seemed like quite an odd thing for a sober person to be doing. My poo soul mate announced she was leaving so I took the opportunity to lower my voice and ask, ‘Before you leave, what is your favourite kind of poo? I have to know!’ and she told me it’s the kind that comes out in one big straight line and pokes out of the water. I exclaimed with glee, ‘That’s the kind I do!!’ It truly was a joyous moment.
On hearing this story Steve asked, ‘Do you not nip your arse, twitch your eye?’ and told me that I can’t have any muscles down there if they come out in one go. I told him that of course I have muscles down there or I’d not be able to hold it in when a toilet is not readily available but that I focus my mind to not contract the muscles so that my poo comes out all in one. I think that you’ll agree, even if you won’t admit it, that there is nothing more satisfying than doing an all-in-one and knowing there’s nothing left up there – an unsavoury side effect of contracting. I told him I felt the control I have over my muscles using my mind would come in handy when giving birth to which he replied laughing, ‘Yeah ‘cause you don’t want the baby coming out in bits.’ How I laughed! He then went on to say, ‘They always say if you put a pencil up your arse you should be able to twitch and twitch until it comes out.’ I don’t know who always says this to Steve but I shall be having words with them if I ever find out, putting those sort of ideas in his head. And mine for that matter.
And thus concludes my lovely story about poo.If you feel the need for more things pooey have a look at www.ratemypoo.com, as recommended to me by Greg Elston.
The word poo has been used 26 times (27 now) in this story. I just looked up the word poo (28) on an online thesaurus and it had nothing for it but under the word ‘feces’ (the American spelling) an alternative that comes up is ‘meadow muffin’. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more lovely phrase in all my years on this planet and I hope that it has made your life more meaningful for having heard it.
With love from,
The Toilet Blogger
xx
When I was at school I went on a skiing trip to Austria. It was my 18th birthday the day we got there (this is not relevant to the story – I’m just setting the scene). One evening we went bowling – I even remember what I was wearing: a black polo neck jumper with cool cut out bits on the shoulders and little union jacks below them (also not relevant to the story). I felt a rumble in my stomach so hastened to the toilet and I’m sorry to be so graphic but it was like pooing chocolate milkshake. Not as tasty though…I’d imagine.
On my first day at my university halls of residence I christened the shared toilet on my corridor with the biggest poo you have probably ever seen in your life. This would not have been a problem had the toilet been of a sturdy nature like the ones I’d grown up with but this loo could not swallow the contents. Lucky for me a toilet brush was on hand and I eventually managed to get it down and wiped my brow with relief that I would not be known as the girl who blocked the toilet.
In my final two years I made it my mission to try and poo in every toilet on the main campus. I made a pretty good dent but failed to penetrate them all. In my last year I managed to block my house toilet with an almighty turd – one of those blockages that causes the water to surge upwards. I was living with a girl and two boys and one of them, Neil, happened to be around when it happened. I was in a rush for a lecture so I couldn’t stay to deal with it so I had to tell him what I’d done, though it was pretty obvious, and he was so lovely about it and said he wouldn’t tell the girl we lived with (his girlfriend) which I was grateful for as she loved to gossip and although I enjoy being spoken about I wasn’t really up for my giant pooscapades being the talk of Textiles that week.
A group of us from my Media Studies module used to go for these huge Malaysian meals at our friend’s mum’s house and myself and my friend Dave would weigh ourselves before and after our post meal poo. It was a fun way to pass a bit of time and to see how weighty our waste was. I’d highly recommend it in times of nothing better to do.
Last summer I went on holiday and I could hardly poo – this may have been because I don’t often eat meat and it was cold meat central in Marbella - but when I did it was like rabbit droppings. It was really quite upsetting because, as you may have observed by now, I do love a good poo. I needn’t have worried because when I returned to Angleterre, after a good sleep, I did four MASSIVE poos in one day – three of which were before midday. It was quite an occasion – a backlog if you will (‘scuse the pun). My bum certainly felt it.
Whilst on holiday, on one of our joyous trip to the supermarket, I bought some humungous and extremely delicious pains au chocolat. Because I was so hungry I placed my shopping bag on the ground whilst I got one out to eat on the journey back to the apartment. The bag was getting heavy so I lifted it in front of my stomach rather than holding it by the handles. I soon got bored of this and went back to handle holding. It was then my chum Victoria noticed I had some chocolate on my top so I licked it off. It didn’t really taste of anything though and then I took a closer look and realised it was actually bird poo that had come off the bottom of the shopping bag and in my greediness I had indulged in a bit of involuntary coprophagy. Brilliant.
This is the first time I’ve felt I could talk about this next event, which happened on 28th August 2008 in the workplace. At this point in time I was not so open about my penchant for pooing, with people at work at least. I sent an email to my flatmate, which contains within it an email sent to the whole company from the accounts assistant who also doubles up as our cleaner. I’m the one in blue:
“Oh my god I’m so secretly embarrassed...
Subject: 1st floor (Last user)
Dear all,
The person who last used the toilet on 1st floor, left it unflushed.
Please take in consideration that it is very unpleasant for anyone going to the toilet to find it like that.
Specially when there could have been a client.
Please take the care to flush, because is unfair on the next person that has to use the toilet and to clean up.
Cheers
I flushed the damn thing twice because my humongous poo blocked it and I couldn't wait for it to refill again so I left a bit of loo paper over the top of it hoping no one would notice. Good lord. I don't understand who she thinks would ever not flush a poo?!
Weird.
Hope you’re having a good day
xx”
My flatmate wrote back to tell me that I’d amused her and a few minutes later I had to write again…
“Oh no it’s getting out of hand.
Everyone has started sending accusing emails to my supervisor saying everyone is betting he did it.
He had previously sent one to Mike [he sits next to me at work] accusing him.
In the time I’ve spent writing this he has received 2 more emails from bookings team saying he's guilty and now everyone in the room is discussing the huge log!
Hahahahahaha
I cannot wait for the dust to settle on this one so I can write a blog about it.”
And now my wish has come true. Oh the liberation to be able to talk so freely about poo.
A few months ago I was at work - it was a Wednesday and less than an hour to go until home time – and the need to poo was quite apparent. Greg took this as his cue to need one too so I had to wait for him to go and for the smell to pass before I could have my turn or turd, whichever you prefer. My time finally came to sit upon the porcelain throne and what started off as a pleasant experience soon took a turn for the worse as I managed to cause an almighty blockage, the water level rising a little bit more each time I flushed it. I had to wait for what seemed like an eternity for the toilet to fill back up again and by the third flush the water was half an inch from overflowing. I realised I was fighting a losing battle. I went back downstairs to give it time to settle down. I was so embarrassed/amused that I told Mike of my predicament. About 5 minutes later (and bear in mind by this point it was way past my home time) I decided to go back up but to my dismay the cleaner/accounts assistant was cleaning the sink area. I thought I had to say something, especially given her penchant for sending out emails to the whole company when the toilet gets blocked with giant turds. So I went in and politely asked, 'Have you cleaned the toilet yet?' and she said that she hadn't so I sheepishly offered up this little nugget of information, 'Um, I've sort of blocked it, I'm so sorry!' She told me to tell the head of engineering and to say that I hadn't seen her, as he'd make her deal with it. He'd already gone home so I sent him an email:
“I'm sorry to do this to you first thing on a Thursday morning but I just came across an almighty blockage up in the toilet on the way to the library and it's on the verge of overflowing.I hope it's gone down by the time you get this.”
Did you enjoy the way I made out like it wasn't my doing? I felt that was quite ingenious. I went up to tell the accounts assistant that I'd sent him an email but she was no longer in the bathroom. I went out into the hall and heard her talking to one of the directors up the stairs who was saying something about a toilet poking tool and it dawned on me, the director OF THE ENTIRE COMPANY was going to unblock it. I closed my eyes and prayed he wasn’t told who did it because I wouldn't be able to look him in the eye again. I came back downstairs to wait it out and then went back up again: the blockage had gone without a trace. I was so relieved and emailed the head of engineering again to tell him he would not need to do any turd taming first thing on Thursday morning after all.
This morning I came into work and was telling my supervisor Steve about a lovely girl I met last night who was as enthusiastic about the pooing process and talking about poo as I am. I don’t know how we got onto the topic but once we started we just couldn’t stop. The guy who introduced us to came back to speak to us and we managed to get him in on the conversation though I’m not sure he was as in his element as we were. He soon wandered off and although our conversation turned to other things we were soon back on poo. Just as she was telling me what her favourite kind of poo was our introducer came back with someone else he wanted us to meet. We had to cease the subject and I have to say I was gutted and eager to hear her preference. The chatter turned away from toilets, at one point people were commenting on how old my phone was. The guy we’d just been introduced to had an antique camera hung around his neck and I told him my phone and his camera would probably make great friends. As I said this I jiggled my phone around in front of his camera lens as if my phone was having a chat with his camera. I’m glad most people in the circle were suitably inebriated or that may have seemed like quite an odd thing for a sober person to be doing. My poo soul mate announced she was leaving so I took the opportunity to lower my voice and ask, ‘Before you leave, what is your favourite kind of poo? I have to know!’ and she told me it’s the kind that comes out in one big straight line and pokes out of the water. I exclaimed with glee, ‘That’s the kind I do!!’ It truly was a joyous moment.
On hearing this story Steve asked, ‘Do you not nip your arse, twitch your eye?’ and told me that I can’t have any muscles down there if they come out in one go. I told him that of course I have muscles down there or I’d not be able to hold it in when a toilet is not readily available but that I focus my mind to not contract the muscles so that my poo comes out all in one. I think that you’ll agree, even if you won’t admit it, that there is nothing more satisfying than doing an all-in-one and knowing there’s nothing left up there – an unsavoury side effect of contracting. I told him I felt the control I have over my muscles using my mind would come in handy when giving birth to which he replied laughing, ‘Yeah ‘cause you don’t want the baby coming out in bits.’ How I laughed! He then went on to say, ‘They always say if you put a pencil up your arse you should be able to twitch and twitch until it comes out.’ I don’t know who always says this to Steve but I shall be having words with them if I ever find out, putting those sort of ideas in his head. And mine for that matter.
And thus concludes my lovely story about poo.If you feel the need for more things pooey have a look at www.ratemypoo.com, as recommended to me by Greg Elston.
The word poo has been used 26 times (27 now) in this story. I just looked up the word poo (28) on an online thesaurus and it had nothing for it but under the word ‘feces’ (the American spelling) an alternative that comes up is ‘meadow muffin’. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more lovely phrase in all my years on this planet and I hope that it has made your life more meaningful for having heard it.
With love from,
The Toilet Blogger
xx
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