My family and other Tragedies.
My family, being not-so-hot in the financial stakes, had a habit of not going on holiday over-seas. My father - being a french teacher - had other plans. One summer after months of plotting, we set off in our trusty 1.6dl Ford Escort with the south of France in our sights.

As I type I'm beginning to realise that this holiday isn't - per say - a nightmare... but there were a few fun incidents, and, come to think about it, they appear to revolve around shit.

Squatter-Toilets: First Contact.
Squatters - for those who have somehow managed to remain ignorant thus far - resemble a shower-tray with two foot-platforms. these allow you to maintain a stance slightly higher than the inevitable flow of shit and piss.

Being small kids, (10/12) my brother and I were still supple and amused by this concept until a series of accidents prevailed.

This is just the first...

The first night we had was spent in coastal Normandy. We fed on Prawns. Half way though the next day's journeying, we desperatly required a shit-stop. Hmm. Squatters. Carefully placing trollies and shorts around our knees (the highest placement available when "assuming the position") we squatted while giggling in adjacent cubicles.
Laughing is not conducive to accurate sphincter control.
Good sphincter control is recommended if you have the shits.
Listening to your sibling's building laughter get accompanied by louder and louder splattering noises causes *yet more* laughter... and resultant shit-torrents.

This is what is known as "positive feedback". The more we laughed, the worse our anal control. The worse our anal control, the more we laughed. 2 minutes later we were howling with laughter desperately trying to maintain balance on the raised areas.

Mirth and merryment quickly turned into dismay as - bawling like a mong and trying to hoik his trollies up - My brother literally skidded in shit and lost footing. The *THUD* represented the moment that both of his feet hit at waist height on opposite cubicle sides as he fell flat on his back in a pile of bog-roll and prawn-splatter, and was also the moment *sigh* where I jumped.

Being caused to jump while laughing and trying to wipe one's arse and heels (I have a blast radius that makes Hiroshima and Nagasaki look lame) had the effect of making me fall over. I instinctively put a hand out behind me to stop the fall.. it went straight down the large diameter shit-hole in the back of the pan. If I'd have known about brake-dancing back then, I'd have been proud of my momentary pose. Sadly my feet then kicked out from under me as the coefficient of friction failed to be big enough, and I too - in accordance with a theme that would establish itself in my life - became a walking shit-monster.

**************

Looking back, Maybe this was the point at which my father became de-sensitized to shit-covered children.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:56, Reply)