“Has she done her duty?” enquired my great-aunt.
My grandmother shrugged, not sharing her sister’s preoccupation.
Duty had, in fact, not been done. Nor would it ever, until I was safely ensconced in the welcoming embrace of the avocado-coloured toilet back home.
Transfixed by the neat squares of newspaper skewered on a nail, I had tried to ignore the warmth of the wooden seat beneath me, and all thoughts of whichever ample behind had rendered it thus. Three terraced houses shared this ‘convenience’; the possibilities were endless.
“You’ll be pleased to be going home…” said Gran.
I was positively busting.
Following in the steps of the illustrious leader of Friday Fictioneers, a memoir of slightly more horrifying aspect.