It was just a normal week night. The evening was taken up with a Council meeting. Or was it Labour Group? Afterwards to the Fridge Bar – next to the Town Hall, and with a three am licence. Most people stayed for just a drink or two, the Usual Suspects stayed later. Cruicky and I achieved the Holy Grail – being asked to leave, being the last two in the upstairs bar at silly o’clock.
You should always go the loo before leaving a bar. My bladder was full of Bacardi Breezers. But the loos were downstairs, in the bar with the weirdo grungy types. And there were always men in the Ladies.
Miraculously I didn’t have to wait long for a bus, and it flew up the Hill, empty of traffic and nearly empty of passengers.
I crossed over and then it hit me. I really needed to pee. Five minutes walk from the bus stop. Not far. Don’t go through the passage – muggers’ paradise at 3.30 am. Walk up the road. Jig up the road. Dance up the road. Bounce up and down up the road. Walk with your legs crossed. Hold deep breaths. Flex those pelvic floor muscles.
I’m in my drive, I’m on my path. I fumble for my keys. I fumble with my keys. Nearly there. Home. Open the front door. Trip over the post, bang past the computer table, through the back room, through the kitchen, thank the lord for a downstairs loo, into the shower room. Only need to undo a button, and a zip and pull down trousers and knickers. A routine I have done hundreds of thousands of times.
Agh! Too late, I’m peeing into my trousers, warm liquid flowing down, momentarily pleasant and comforting, and the relief of releasing my bladder. Then cold in the cold air. Drunk as a skunk I sit on the loo still fully clothed, relieved only that I made it home…