TSB gets into a Sticky Situation (1)

I have an admission to make.
I'm getting old.

There I've said it.

Please don't get me wrong, I don't feel old; I actually feel in my innermost being that I'm about 31, but my physical body has other ideas.

Like many people in my age group I take medications for hypertension and cholesterol, and I've recently been diagnosed as a Type 2 diabetic, so I'm quite careful about my diet.

No, no, this is a lie, my Beloved is quite careful about my diet.

As she said, she didn't spend the best years of her life with me, just to watch me crumple into a "Jellied and bloated bag of quivering and insensate flesh" (Her words, not mine) so she takes care of me.

But other things don't quite work as they used to.

I don't care what they say, this is not supposed to happen.

Hair sprouts from the most amazing places.

Wrinkles get deeper and more pronounced.

Memory, especially of recent events, can get rather vague, although m'son told me that he thinks it may be due to my intake of spirituous beverages.  The Curmudgeon noted that the statins used for cholesterol control are believed also to cause some short-term memory loss, and that's the probable cause, not the whisky.

This is supposed to be what it's like, but goodness knows what mine looks like by now.

But the problem I occasionally have is with my digestive tract.

I've noticed that the production of methanoic gases is definitely up, and causes longer, more aromatic and frequent release of gases.  I've been fortunate so far, as I can usually blame the kids in class for the occasional rude noise and unpleasant aromas so produced, but it's getting to be a problem.

Now this next bit may be offensive to those of a more gentle nature, so you may wish to avert your eyes from the following text.

Don't look.  It's nasty.

My bowels can get in an uproar.

(Look, I'm really trying to use the nicest language possible, but the appropriate vocabulary is a bit limited, so I may have to use some technical words here and there)

One day everything is normal, then the next day I might get a little "solid".  Then things can really fall apart and, to put it nicely, everything turns to the consistency of Pea and Ham soup (with added lentils).

Hmmm...and about the same colour.

The real problem is that I don't know what will happen on any given day, so I've started to take precautions.

The need for precautions became apparent last month, when I accompanied my Beloved on a shopping trip to Wellington.  There was no real need for me to be there, apart from acting as the taxi driver, as I have absolutely no fashion sense, and even less appreciation of the subtle nuances of colour that most women seem to take for granted. (peach is NOT a colour, damnit)

While she was prowling around the shop, lifting and examing the various garments on offer, and browbeating the poor sales staff, I was mooching about outside, looking in computing stores, book stores and the Sony Centre, but I could only look around for so long, as some of the staff were begining to look at me in a suspicious manner.

What's he doing?

So I returned to the clothes shop to see if my Beloved had finished. Almost an hour had passed, so she must be finished by now.

Wrong.

Still looking and comparing, so I (like a couple of other bored looking blokes) stayed out of the way and leaned against the side wall, just inside the store.

I felt gas pressure building up, and carefully looking nonchalant, I attempted to release the gas quietly.

OH DEAR.

Things were going wrong.

Just at the moment of release, the sensory feedback from the nerves down there indicated that what was being released was probably not gaseous, but of a more fluid consistency.

The dreaded Shart had Struck.

I attempted to get my Beloved's attention, but she was still happily reaming through the clothes racks and ignored my rapidly wiggling eyebrows, the only subtle method of communication my shocked brain could concieve of.

WHY can't you read my eyebrows.  It's as plain as the nose on my face.

I won't go into the gross details of how I finally got out and home, but it did entail sitting on a plastic bag to protect the leather seats of my car, and driving with the windows wide open, with my Beloved gagging quietly beside me.

But Dear Reader, this is not the sticky situation which the title refers to.

It's much. much worse.

I'm running out of time to complete this today, and I feel I may have to quickly depart in search of a quiet and lonely toilet, so I'll need to finish this tomorrow, peristalsis permitting.

Just to give you an idea of what's to come, I got the main concept from Victor Melgrew.

If you don't know who Victor is, here's a clip to give you the general impression.