Why Water Is Not As Good As They Say It Is

This post is not for they feint of heart. If you are easily offened, I would stop reading now, I must warn you. However I think this is very funny and in honesty can't really see why you wouldn't - laughing at someone else's misfortune is always funny, after all.

Now, if you have read posts such as this one, you will know that now and then I may have an issue or two with my bladder and control thereof (three years of pilates clearly never paid of - which is why I decided I should just knock it on the head and stop this still hippy nonsense - oh alright then, I moved away from where I did the classes and go lazy. God, can't you just let me get away with it once? ONCE, I ask you).

Today was no exception. I try to drink two litres of water while I'm at work. The way this works is that I fill my 2l water bottle at the beginning of the day and discover at lunch time that I have been highly successful - with all but 0.25l left in the bottle. This leaves me in a situation where I have to drink 1.75l in the seven hour period between after lunch and leaving for home.

As you can imagine, with a bladder like mine (an ex once told me that I drink like a camel but have the bladder of a mouse... there may be some truth in that), maintaining 1.75l of water in my being in not such an easy task.

Therefore, during that seven hour afternoon period, I generally need to go to the loo approximately 56 times. And one for luck. The one for luck being just before I go home - whether I've been five minutes beforehand or not.

Which is where today's story begins. This occasion was one upon which I had in fact been to the loo a mere 15 minutes or so beforehand, however I decided I would go for the one for luck (and can't pretend that I was anything other than bursting again already).

I wandered into the ladies, which had just had a bleachy floor wash, so was on tip toes, hoiking up my trousers. Then got into the cubicle, still on tip toes, hoiking trousers up further so that I could both pull them down, whilst pulling the legs up to ensure they didn't meet with the bleachy floor.

Mission accomplished, I took a seat and relaxed to have a pee (sorry - I did tell you it that if you were easily offended you should never have come here). So there I am having a pee, and something is a bit odd. Something doesn't feel right, it's almost as if I'm peeing through loo roll... hang on - did I take my knickers down? A quick check tells me that no, I didn't. I am sitting on the loo, peeing myself. And I can tell you, I am so glad that no one else is there - because I am giggling out loud on the loo - and there is just no way to explain that to your work colleagues.

So there I am, left in a situation where there is a bleachy floor, I have peed my pants and I need to ensure that I don't get my black trousers in the bleachiness of the floor. Hmmm.

The only thing for it was to struggle out of my trousers, ensuring no contact was made with the floor, then removing the offending knickers without the wet bit touching my legs, then I am left with the decision of exactly what I am going to do with my peed in pants.

I toyed with the idea of just dumping them in the sanitary bin and running off (once I'd got my trousers back on, of course), however I am my mother's daughter - with waste not, want not ringing in my ears, I pull out a load of loo roll and wrap the offending numbers in it. I then frantically search through my handbag for something in which I can hide them, so that the rest of my carriage on the tube do not think that they are sharing their space with someone who has peed themselves (which of course, I was).

Luckily, I am a pig, so I have an empty crisp bag in my handbag, in which I wrap my wet knickers. Yes, that's right, I make my journey home, commando, with a pair of pants that I have peed myself in, wrapped in a crisp bag. That's glamour for you.