I had an appointment with the dentist this morning, but after I had waited twenty minutes the dentist put his head into the room and said that a kid had broken a tooth and that I would have to come back next week.
"Yes, of course," I said, when he apologised; "I understand." But I was pissed. I went to the café to read the newspaper. Gossip has it that someone was shot dead in the village yesterday and I anticipated a large article in the newspaper. It is not often that our village makes headlines. But there was nothing about a killing, or even about an accidental death.
Even more frustrated, I left the cafe. Almost immediately I felt a big and urgent turd roiling in my lower intestine, or bowel, or where-ever it is that turds roil. I decided that rather than go back into the café to use the toilets there, without buying a drink (even though I had bought and consumed one there only minutes before), I would strike out into the countryside, and do my shit there, outside, with a landscape in the background, to photograph.
I had a spot in mind. But first I had to buy some bread. The queue in the baker's was long and my turd was impatient. It coiled angrily. I managed to remain erect, despite severe stomach cramps. I did make some whimpering noises, but they were so soft that only my immediate neighbours in the queue turned to look.
Back in my car, I set off smartly for the countryside. The contractions were coming more frequently now, every minute or so. I turned off the road near the gyspy camp, along a track that led across a plateau. By now the cramps were very serious. I have eaten a lot of wild mushrooms lately (Boletus erythropus (I think), Amanita rubescens, Aminita caesarea...); it may have been these that were upsetting my tummy.
Then, yet another frustration! A car was parked in the middle of the track, blocking my way. It was an old and very dirty little car. I pulled up behind it. There was a young man at the wheel. I don't know what he was doing but clearly my arrival bothered him. He was dark and decidedly shifty. I'm sure he was from the gyspy camp. Which does not make him a malfaiteur, of course, but he did look unwholesome, with a great cock-comb of black hair and dark unfriendly eyes. Indeed, I began to feel a little afraid. There is, after all, a murderer loose in our village. Perhaps this was he. I put the car into reverse and began to back along the track. I saw the man tuck something away in his car, then drive on a little distance to a spot where there was room for me to pass. As I did, he glared at me darkly, and I remembered that this was a cul de sac; if the guy wanted to finish me off all he had to do was block my exit and pull out a gun. No-one would hear the shots, except perhaps the gypsies, and of course they would not tell. All I had to protect myself was my mushrooming knife and a plastic bag.
But the guy did not follow me, which was a relief, because by now the turd was coiling in my lower bowel like a trapped acconda. I parked the car, rushed across the track to a bit of grass with a nice view beyond (see pic), dropped my trousers, and let blast...
That was when the dirty little car reappeared and I had to rapidly stuff a wad of tissue up my crack and pull up my trousers. This is how I am to die, I thought, like someone in a Flannery O'Connor story. It seemed so unfair. All I was doing was exploring the quietly introspective art of loving my craps. What were people going to think? The police, when they found me lying beside my crap? They would not know about my blog and the innocent fun of it. They would think perhaps that... they would surmise... what? This was such a public place to shit. Folk – normal folk like myself – do not shit out in the open. They find a toilet. Or if they are caught short, they hide themselves in the forest and cover their deposit with leaves. Would the police think, then, that I had shat in terror, just before my slaying? Or....
It was too much even for my rabid imagination. I watched the little car pull to a stop beside my own (unlocked!) car, and after a pause, turn and drive off slowly from whence it had come.
I had been spared.
Perhaps I had never been in danger. I will never know. I took my photo and went back to my car. My walk had changed. I had shoved the wad of tissue up my arse with savage speed and now I was wondering if it was doing its job.
I was also wondering what all this is about, photographing my turds and posting them on the net. And so far without a single follower. Just now I looked at a few of my rivals' blogs and frankly, my craps are just as interesting if not more that all those smug photos of kiddies and church outings.
It is all a bit beyond me.
