The first story I wrote since I left school was about Harold – a middle-aged man with issues. In that cautionary tale, he met space-aliens, chatted to God and pooped himself. Twice.
He told himself that he was okay to do the latter because at the end of the day – it was his choice. He was the one who decided to leave it too long to set off for the bathroom. He was in control.
I wonder now if this was really true. And even if it is was true then, and perhaps now – will it always be so?
What happens if he simply can’t get to the bathroom quick enough because of his dicky ticker or his gammy leg? What happens if he goes gaga and he just doesn’t recognise the signs that he needs to get to the bathroom until it’s way too late?
Where’s his control then? Huh?
Soundtrack: Bad Liar Selena Gomez (unrelated to the theme – just the resident earworm)