I feel that we know each other well enough by now and that I can share my inner most secrets. Last Sunday I found myself sitting on the sofa with a slight pain in the lower part of my stomach and a nagging feeling that something was missing. It then dawned on me that I hadn’t been to the little boy’s room all day and that for once in my life I was showing the signs of constipation. The enemy, the good lady wife was consulted re my diet and my roughage intake was discussed. My five a day was looked into, found to be lacking and was immediately offered a bowl of oaty bran. With oaty bran finished I decided to top things up with an out of date yoghurt from the back of the fridge, the enemy’s special reserve as I call it, plus I found a pear in the fruit bowl which ran through my fingers as I picked it up. An hour later, still nothing.
So, another bowl of oaty bran was consumed and for a moment I considered sprinkling it with a tin of sweet corn but the enemy suggested a slightly more direct root.
In the cupboard in the bathroom she remembered that we might have a bottle of syrup of figs. After a short search, the bottle was found and I took a long swig.
Mmmmmmm figgy!
By now there was some alarming gurgling from under my belt but no real action so I returned to the sofa and watched forty five minutes of ITV which has had the desired effect in the past….but nothing! Even a blast of Jeremy Kyle…..that normally works during the opening credits!
‘How about a port and brandy?’ suggested the enemy. A short search discovered, no port, but a small flask of brandy. It was at this point that the enemy read the syrup of figs bottle label and started to reminisce about the day she had to give it to rat boy, the son and heir. He was nine! He is now nearly sixteen! The bottle didn’t have a best before date as I assume it was manufactured before that particular part of food legislation came in. But what was it going to do…upset my stomach?
Another hour later and still nothing, so I decided to mix the brandy and the rest of the syrup of figs in a rather sludgy cocktail, with umbrella and all. A fruit punch with a real punch, below the belt. I was later seen tripping around the kitchen claiming I had invented the elixir of life. I was going to patent it and call it ‘Fruit Poop.’ I even came up with an advertising jingle.
Fruit Poop, Fruit Poop. Runs out of your bottom and ruins your suit.
All to no avail. However Monday morning was interesting. I had to plan my trip to work ensuring that open woodland, parks and gardens were close at hand and when I arrived at the BBC, I asked if there was some sort of porta potty available for the studio.
I’m better now, thinner but better
Fitz
