Ah, the joys of a weekend with the mother-in-law — all those rich, greasy delights lovingly shoved down my throat like I hadn’t eaten in weeks. My gut, however, was less enthused.
Three hours into the drive home, it gave up. Spectacularly.
So here I am, squatting in a field somewhere off the A-road, trousers around my ankles, mid-diarrhoeic symphony. Each release a hot jazz solo, alternating between melting chocolate gelato and what I can only describe as digestive regret.
Liberating? Absolutely.
But the flies. Oh god, the flies. They’ve declared war on my arsehole, my thighs, my very soul. And the tall grass tickling my legs feels oddly flirtatious, as if Mother Nature herself were whispering, “You chose this, darling.”
Anyway, my boewls still hurt like hell.
I really do hope I make it home.
the Shy Tird 