OK, not all of these stories are about toilets. However when I look back on my life a LOT of my stories involve or reference toilets/bathrooms. I can’t help it. It’s my superpower – no matter where it lies I can find weird stuff in toilets).
Anyhow, we start — as so many great stories do — in my infancy (I’ve told this story before, but on here and frankly I think this was the start of everything – also this story was told to me years after the event by my mum). I’ve never been good at confrontation. Basically, imagine a Northern Irish hamster. When things get tense I either run away — not always in the right direction, once my neighbour caught me rearranging his garden gnomes and rather than go back into my house, which was right there, I tottered into a hedge and stayed there till he went away — or freeze in place and hope nothing bad happens.
So, frankly, the playgroup that my mum enrolled me in was a lot more stressful than the name would imply. Particularly since there was a slightly older child there who picked on the little ones. Well, for a baby playgroup level of picked on, I believe she used to toddle up and push us over.
One day it was my turn. She toddled towards me, a vast wall of toddler blubber and spite, and I, with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide, had to step up to the plate and deal with this oncoming threat.
So I peed myself, and then I stood in the puddle. The older child, understandably reluctant to deal with a situation outside her limited experience, recoiled and tottered away.
That day I learned that there are few problems in life that can’t be at least delayed by piddling yourself and standing in the puddle. It might not be an elegant solution, I might not have utilised this tactic since, but I always know it’s an option.