While hunting for mushrooms this afternoon I suddenly needed to crap really badly. This was a surprise, for I had already crapped once today. My turd this morning had been firm, knobbly, a pleasant uniform earthy brown. A conventional turd. But conventional turds, like the proverbial trains that arrive on time, do not make for interesting posts. I decided to flush this one and wait and see what tomorrow would bring...
"That's that for today," I thought.
Well, no. At about 2pm, while I was in the forest looking for mushrooms (Clitocybe nebularis, Clitopilus prunulus, Amanita rubescens, Cantharellus idfundibilifomis...), I suddenly needed to crap. Urgently! I had my suspicions why. Last night J and P had come to dinner and J had brought a big pot of poulet aux morilles. It was delicious, but even while eating those morilles, I wondered if I would not soon have the runs. I will be pleased when the mushroom season has ended and I can get back to a more balanced diet.
Anyway, as the cramps increased in intensity I began casting around for a photogenic spot in which to give birth, so to speak. I found a huge toadstool, (a milk cap, Lactarius deliciosus, I think). It was shaped like a cup, and it occurred to me that it might be fun to depose a sloppy turd into it, like a chocolate mousse in a chalice. I dropped my trousers and positioned myself directly above it and very gratefully let fly.
Missed!
One's anus does not point quite where one expects. Mine doesn't, at least.
I'm amazed, actually, at how far off I was in my calculations. Sixteen centimetres, if one uses the length of my mushrooming knife as a scale. It's just as well I wasn't flying a B52 bomber in the Second World War; I would have killed scores of villagers and left the munitions factory untouched.
PS, I have discovered that if I click on "STATS" I can see how many internauts have visited this blog. Not many. The lack of quantity, however, is compensated by the geographical diversity of my visitors. The States. Canada. France. Afgansistan!
I wish I knew more about these anonymous visitors who poke their noses into my little world and then leave, silently closing the door behind them. If I could talk to them, I might be able to charm one or two into becoming "followers". I would so love a "follower". Other bloggers get them. The most deadly dullest of them often have dozens. Why shouldn't I?
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