Ahem. By CpSingleton © 2016
I want you all to picture the scene:
It was early. So early that even the roosters offered a cranky middle finger to chilly lady dawn.
In drab, decrepit Keighley town, the father waves his teenaged children on to the homebound bus after a fun, but hectic weekend visit and then gets caught short.
He’s not normally one for public loos, but desperation can make god-fearers of us all.
Two minutes later, pants around ankles, relief draws the father into a drifting land of comfort and snores.
Fluffy, warm dreams of singing ice-creams and rabbits playing banjos bounce and scurry in his mind. Floating mice and all things…
The sound of a lady saying: ‘Ahem,’ brings his eyes open. ‘Helloooo?’ She adds just as his heavy eyes droop once more.
He frowns as he hears her tip-tap heels scamper out; stage left.
Father wonders why a woman would enter a male loo, until…
‘Ahem,’ a different female onomatopoeic. ‘Is there a man in here?’
‘I’m sure he’s in that cubicle,’ the nervous first lady hissed. ‘I heard him snore.’
Realisation belts the father full in the face and the lack of eau-de-urine should’ve been a pleasant give away: he’s in the wrong toilet!
There was only one thing to do.
He wipes and pulls up trow, before confidently announcing: ‘Morning!’ as he strides past the ladies with a brazen grin; thanking the sky that he didn’t know either of them.