Une histoire anonyme.......

I heard a really funny story the other day but the person involved threatened to delete my blog if I wrote about it so I'm going to make it completely anonymous.

Once upon a time, there was a blogger who didn't live in France, didn't have a part-time husband and didn't have two lovely children - that bit at least is true!

The son known as The Blue One, who was nothing like his mother for getting caught undressed at inapproriate moments, hated using the toilets at his school so would always wait until he got home.

One day, his sister, known as The Pink One, suffered a monumental breakdown in communications which meant that he was delayed getting home while he waited for his sister's school bus in a little village that wasn't in Southwest France.

He told his mother that he was going to use the village toilets. He must have been truly in extremis to have even considered this option as the village toilets are notorious for being fly-infested, disease ridden holes in the ground, not to mention the fact that just getting to them requires belays and crampons, being as they are down a very narrow, steep track.

His mother carried on chatting to her neighbour who was also waiting for her daughter to arrive. After a quarter of an hour, The Blue One reappeared, walking strangely and announced he was 'going to the cafe' which isn't called the Cafe du Centre and isn't run by a Franco-Australian couple called Michelle and Jean-Marc.

Eventually, he reappeared looking a lot more comfortable. On the drive home, it transpired that the following had happened.

Using a convenient pair of crampons that he had secreted about his person, The Blue One had managed to reach the fly-infested, disease ridden toilets where nature played a cruel trick on him and he needed more than a No. 1. His first mistake was not to check for the (albeit unlikely) presence of toilet paper. The village toilet is generally cleaned once a year on the Maire's birthday at which time half a roll of toilet paper is also added to last until the following year. No self-respecting person leaves the house without at least two rolls of Charmin in her handbag, but having a complete flake for a mother, she had forgotten to impart this vital part of 'life in rural France' (where of course he didn't live) to him.

The deed being done, he looked around for the toilet paper, only to discover that there was none. A quick check of the pockets revealed them to be devoid of any useful bottom wiping equipment, so espying a conveniently large leafed tree, he waddled out of the toilet, trousers around his ankles, only to come fact to face with a couple of hikers.

Wishing them a cheery 'Bonjour' even though he didn't live in France, he grabbed a suitable looking leaf and waddled back into the toilet. Unfortunately, it being autumn, the leaf was a bit dry and not really 'fit for purpose' and promptly disintegrated in his hand.

A brief panic ensued before he decided that the only thing for it was to head to the toilet in the Cafe (why oh why didn't he go there in the first place?) while trying to ensure that there was minimal damage to the insides of his jeans. So, underpants half way down his thighs and hands in back pockets pulling jeans away from his posterior, he waddled up to the cafe which, in a miracle of 21st Century techonological development had both toilets you could sit on and a nice, soft roll of toilet paper.

Equilibrium restored!

This is, of course, a work of complete and utter fiction and any similarity to any person living, dead or soon to be dead (that'll be me!) is purely (un)intentional and just for the record, the photo shows a representation of a village toilet, not the real thing, as I wouldn't even consider entering it without full HazMat protective clothing that's of course, assuming I knew where it was....... which I don't.