As a lady, I enjoy reading magazines full of adverts for clothes I cannot afford and articles that make me hate my appearance. After reading several of these publications in quick succession on a snowy March day, I resolve to start working on my summer body now. Because I am too poor to employ a personal trainer (have you seen the price of a magazines these days) and like eating food too much to try anorexia, I begin to research alternative ways to lose weight. Per chance, I come across something called Dieters Tea, a magical weight loss drink from the exotic lands somewhere east of Clacton. It promises to give me as many bowel movements as a bout of gastroenteritis, without the misery of two weeks paid leave. Rather than sticking a finger down my throat, I am sticking two fingers up at the body shamers!
Confident that the magic of the orient to give me a body like Jessica Alba, I go on a dinner date and indulge in deep fried cheese, tiramisu and other artery clogging foods knowing that I shall not wake up tomorrow looking like I I have swallowed a hot air balloon. Unfortunately, as I walk to the station and a train home, the Beast From the East begins to stir in my nether regions. At first, I hear a growl like an angry bulldog in mating season. I try to mask the sound but world stands still. Every sound and every movement seems to cause a reaction, it feels as if someone is having a fireworks party in my bowels! I get the train and contemplate my awful dilemma. Should I to use the facilities on the train and subject the fellow passengers to a chemical weapons attack that Basir Al Assad would be proud of or try to hold it in until I get off? Either way, I know this situation will not end well. My short train journey feels like a trip on the Trans-Siberian Railway, but somehow, I manage to leave the train with some of my dignity left.
As luck will have it, I spot a pub opposite the train station and the friendly bouncer seeing the look on my face takes mercy on me and informs me I can use the ladies powder room. I sit on the throne for five whole minutes as the contents of my bowels make their dash for freedom. To someone else, this may be a pub toilet, but to me, it is paradise. Sadly, my zen like bliss is interrupted by a loud knocking and a lady informing me that “Babes, if it’s not coming out, don’t force it. Just get off the loo so we can have our go”. While I would like to be able to give a poetic repose worthy of this fine online journal, all I can reply is “It’s not the not coming out that’s the problem. It’s the not being able to stop it”. My offer to clean the facilities after I finish is refused by the lady who charmingly tells me to “just get out, we’ll manage.”
I take the hint and finish my business as quickly as I can. I perform some per functionary cleaning, but this only seems to make matters worse. As I exit the pub, I see a large queue of ladies wishing to use the privy and resolve to run away as fast as Paula Radcliffe. However, as she likes to do her business in the street, this is a poor analogy.
As reviewed by Lena Cable