A long time ago, when Mr Justice was still an only child, I remember having two thoughts in quick succession, completely independent of each other with ne’er a connection between the two.
The first thought was: “I should let Mr Justice have some nappy-free time before his bath.”
The second thought was: “Mr Justice hasn’t done a poo today.”
(I think we all know where this is heading. Yes, hindsight is a fine thing, indeed.)
So there I was, doing the dishes, when Mr Justice came crawling into the kitchen, a look of abject horror on his face. He stopped at my feet and, Lady Macbeth-style, stretched out his hands as if to say “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!“.
And it still wasn’t until I looked behind him at the long trail of brown sludge the length of the (carpeted) hall that I finally connected those two thoughts o’ mine. Yes, the penny had finally dropped – except it wasn’t really a penny, it was about half a kilo of baby shit.
This was the story I wasn’t allowed to tell my already deeply-traumatised husband the other day when he showed me photographic evidence of a floor-poo Tiddles McGee had laid while I was out at the shops.
“Uh, it’s a photo of a turd,” I said, non-plussed. “So what?”
“I don’t think you understand! He’d got some in his trousers and everything!” my husband exclaimed. He then went on to describe how it had taken three scoops to get the poo into the toilet and how he’d had to scrub shit off the trousers. Yes, scrub shit off the trousers.
He was far too agitated by the whole shocking experience to notice that my thumb and forefinger had started playing the world’s smallest violin for him. After all, in my time I’ve regularly dealt with far worse and he is a man who makes no secret of his belief that he will die if he touches the shit of a child not of his loins.
“You should use the photo in your blog,” he urged. “Go on.”
“And let my blog become a scatalogical fetish site? No thank you,” I said. “Anyway, most of my readers don’t need to see poo. It’s like showing a classical musician what a treble clef looks like. Or a potter some clay. Some very brown, squidgy, squelchy, lover-ly warm clay.”
And with that, my husband scurried away, all but delicately pressing a lavender-scented handkerchief to his mouth.