Poo

I had poo in my pocket. Not a lot of poo, just a bit of poo. It was dog poo. My dog did such a big poo that the poo bag couldn’t contain it, and a smudge of it went on my finger. My poo-hand instinctively put the poo bags back in my pocket. And that’s how the poo got in there.

Now, you’d think that I’d change my trousers when I got home. You’d think it would be the first damn thing I’d do. And you’d be wrong.

Forgetting I had poo in my pocket, I went about my day as normal. After all, I couldn’t smell the poo. My short-term memory rewrites itself whenever something new comes along, which didn’t help the situation.

As I cracked on with my day, I’d put my hand in my pocket, remember the poo, wash my hands, and then forget about the poo. I must’ve washed my hands about fifty damn times before 5 p.m.

I can’t help the way I am, unfortunately.

In the evening, I went downstairs to make some toast. My wife was out, so toast was on the menu for dinner. I made quite a bit of toast that night, and I must’ve washed my hands at least fifty damn times during the process.

By the time it was time for bed, the poo had made itself at home. It was really in there now. It had plans for where a little poo sofa was going to go, a little poo TV —