Oh, poo.

A few years ago I went out with a guy who had ADHD. One of the consequences of this (and I would say one of the causes of it too) was the fact that he couldn't focus long enough to cook anything without burning it, and so he relied on microwave meals and take-outs. It was a vicious cycle - the one thing that could have helped improve his attention span was also something that he didn't have the required attention span to achieve.

But he was resigned to this diet of microwave burgers and chow-meins - going so far to say that he hated the process of eating so much that if he could take a pill every day instead, he would. Putting any effort in to cooking for him was a waste of time. I would create a tasty dish in the hope that it might spark up his taste buds, but his response was always "Yeah, it's alright, I guess" Hmph. There's gratitude for you.

The outcome of his poor diet was that he only emptied his bowels once a week - luckily never in my house - but he would usually tell me of the results with respect to length, smell, girth, how many people in the direct vicinity died, etc. His greatest achievement was passing an eighteen inch stool which stood so far out of the pan that he had to stand up to complete it. I kid you not.

So why was I reminded of this? For the first time in my entire life, the very same thing happened to me. Okay, not eighteen inches, but long enough not to flush. And I always thought that this was something that only men had to deal with - how to dispose of a super-sized turd. Because let's face it - us ladies just don't admit to pooing, do we? It's not a very ladylike thing to do, having a poo, even though most of us do it every day.

The thing is, I am not adverse to dealing with poo or talking about it. I have mopped up babies, cleaned up after dogs, and even changed the incontinence pants of a disabled man who I cared for once upon a time. And that wasn't pretty. And every day when I was travelling, the conversation round the dinner table always turned to the state of everyone's bowels and stories of instances where people came close to crapping themselves in the middle of a public place. It was par for the course. But somehow I just don't want to deal with this. I don't have any wire coat hangers to hand, I'm certainly not going to dive in with the rubber gloves and I couldn't imagine the potential state of the toilet brush. So what to do? Will it just dissolve, maybe?

I remember one solution told to me by a friend years ago. He shared a house with two other people, back in his University days. He is a very neat and tidy guy. He does not like germs, dirt or poo. One afternoon he was in the kitchen slicing some bread. It was a freshly bought loaf - not the cheap sliced white value bread from the supermarket, but freshly baked and healthy, and perfect to accompany the nice cheese to which he had just treated himself. Luxury in the life of a student. His scruffy flatmate strolls in to the kitchen.
Friend: How are you, alright?
Scruffy: Yeah, man, really good. Hey, you'll never guess what!
Friend: What?
Scruffy: Oh man, this morning I did the biggest turd in my life! The thing was nearly walking by itself! I tried to flush it but it wouldn't budge!
Friend: Oh gross. So don't tell me you've left it there?
Scruffy: Nah, man, I had to break it up to get it down.
Friend: So what did you use, a stick or a coathanger?
Scruffy: Nah, man. I used that knife... but don't worry, I did wash it.

At which point my friend picked up the breadboard - knife, fresh baked bread and all - ran out in to the garden and threw the whole lot in to the bushes.

And there is my answer. I need to find a stick.