I have been laid up for a while now and confined to barracks.
Age has wearied and the years condemned and as Isobel says as she lathers my parts with a mixture of horse lineament and medicinal creosote, ‘none of us are getting any younger’
This means me being tucked upstairs in the snug, a warm blanket over the legs, cup of tea or warm gin at my side and of course a battery of pipes. Once one is settled and in the gentle embrace of a handful of analgesics there is little to disturb the patient and all is as good as it can be all things considered.
However invariably just when one is comfortable, free from discomfort and enjoying the book and pipe at hand that traitor the bladder makes itself known and demands emptying. Always when a chap is settled, always at a time most inconvenient, always when its a right bugger to get up.
Happens in bed just the same. A good dream involving perhaps a large cake, chocolate biscuits and maybe some goddess of stage and screen such as Gina Lollobrigida with a bucket of double cream and not much else! Then alarm bells ring and that traitorous bladder signals a need to micturate. Always at the dead of night, always when the cold touch of lino on bare feet is as welcome as that of stepping onto cat vomit.
This gets worse as you get older. Dear Terry and I planned journeys by way of good clean public conveniences. His favourite watering holes not only served good food and drink but had commodious and well appointed lavatories. One’s bladder is a liability, a double-dealer and betrayer.
You can ignore it at your peril. Failure is a damp uncomfortable horror, a reminder of childhood or dreadful alcoholic excess. That alone forces the body to cast off warmth and comfort in order to point ‘Percy at the porcelain’.
As I clambered back into my chair, rearranged the blanket, lit the pipe, tried to get as comfortable as I was before the summons I contemplated the one ‘superhero’ attribute I would like and that would be to be able to pee at a distance. As if through some time and space continuiniummm my bladder would despatch its contents without any inconvenience to myself, without me even moving but still knowing that blessed relief that passeth all understanding. Like farting.
Then my mind wove dreams in the air. What if this urine could be despatched anywhere, either as a light rain, a shower, mist or just dumped. No clue as to where it came from, just arrived. Why dictate that it would empty into one’s own lavatory, garden or cat litter tray, why not somewhere else? The world after all is your mollusc if you are a ‘super-hero’.
Here are my ideas, you will have you own and you’re welcome to share them with us all.
So, without prejudice.
The wardrobe of David Cameron just before he’s due to go somewhere important.
Donald Trumps hair – any time at all but best when he’s spouting on camera.
Those greedy bastards of financiers and bankers whose reckless greed pushed the country into ruin. In their drinks. Forever.
There could be more, your choice. I’ve got to get up now and have a wee.