On being back in the saddle!
by Pseud O'Nym
Despite yesterday getting off to a bad start, somehow I managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. I write that I managed because I did. I overlooked the fact that I’d been rudely woken up from a sleep that wasn’t. I was the bigger person and so by the power of Castle Greyskull, roused myself into a creditable impersonation of someone eager to go for a ride.
Not that kind of ride!
Get your minds out of the gutter and stop being so juvenile! A bike ride. Now stop it! Not a bike ride that’s a rather ostentatiously bizarre sexual act, the kind of thing that that might simultaneously appear in an episode of ‘Black Mirror” and get one sectioned at Broadmoor. But one that involved the rather less questionable practice of cycling up to St.James’s Park via the very easy cycle route over Vauxhall Bridge.
On the one hand, it was wonderful. We – Marge and I – managed to get out whilst the sun was still shining and we both curbed any impulses to throttle each other. And on the other hand, it was proof that Sods Law exists. I have a side-by-side adult tricycle, so finding an easy way to navigate through London, was extremely galling. Because whilst I’m going to North London, the tricycle is going to Swanage. Typical that just at the last second, you discover what you’ve missed out on. For a variety of good reasons, we – me and Marge – didn’t go out on the bike during lockdown, which is an abiding regret, as the streets were deserted!
On the way back we stopped off for some tea and cake and I was enjoying myself so much that I overlooked the fact that I was bursting. I hate using public toilets. Always have. Only if it’s absolutely necessary will I use one – and the last time I used one, I got locked in it. So no, I didn’t mention it, and no, even though Marge used one in the café went to relieve herself, I styled it out.
Not enough though, to fool my bladder. It bided its time. It knew when I’d arrived back. And waited. Waited till the tricycle was locked up in the garage. Waited until I was back in the house and then it was almost as if my bladder was possessed by a demonic version of “it’s a Knockout’ and the more urgent my haste to the toilet was, the more I could feel my bladder itching to ruin my jeans. Punishing me for calling its bluff, showing me who was boss and in so doing, reminding me of my own frailties.
But when I got to the toilet, it went up to 11! The frantic urgency, the fumbling fingers versus of unhelpful zips and fabric didn’t exactly help matters. Then I hurriedly sat down – it’s just more efficient – and suddenly I was pissing like a king and making sounds more suited to when one riding.
Yes, that kind of riding!