Yesterday, thanks to the power of holding in a wee too long (way too long!), I discovered that I can do a catwalk walk, one foot carefully placed in front of the other. Although I was more superwaddle than supermodel because I also had to keep my thighs clamped together. Nevertheless I sashayed my way to the loo at high speed, nearly giving myself third degree burns from the chub rub, and managed to get past the tipping point without incident.
The tipping point is the moment between locking the cubicle door and finding the waistband of your trousers. In this moment your brain tells your gin bag “okay, the toilet is right there, you can let loose now.” At the tipping point you can’t move. You can’t even jiggle. The most you can manage is tighter clamping of the thighs as you break out in a cold sweat, waiting for the moment to pass. When the moment does pass you have exactly 30 nanoseconds to whip up/down all clothing before your brain screams “the toilet is still here!” and the tipping point is reached again. In those 30 nanoseconds you will find that all entrances to your clothing have been magically sealed.
Finally I sat there on the loo, exhausted from the trousers battle, my top around my neck and my handbag hanging from the tampon machine. As I tried to figure out whether a really long thread was stretching up from my trousers or down from my top, I contemplated the pee chart on the door. You know, the chart that shows all the colours of wee and which ones are healthy. It goes from a very mild camomile tea to a good strong brew. I peered closely at the chart, wondering if they had americano. I’d been holding this wee in for a very long time.
It was at that point my phone rang.
“Hello Scottish,” said Mr V, “are you nearly home?”
“Hello English, I’m currently driving a toilet. Number 1 only so no time to chat.”
“Okay,” said my soulmate, “I’m at the shops. Do you want me to get you some wine?”
As I deliberated my choice of alcohol I pulled on the thread and felt one end slide under my bra and the other emerge from my boot. It kept unravelling. What was this thread?!
I looked at the pee chart again and made my decision.
“For some reason I really fancy a beer…”
When I got home that night the mystery of the thread was solved. I took my boots off to find that, being a supermodel, I am setting the trend – trousers with one cropped leg.