To Pee or not to Pee, that is the question…

My other half has insisted that this particular story be told. Needless to say it is at my expense. I didn’t find it particularly humorous, but Davina did, so I hand the keyboard over to her:

At the time of this incident we were living in Kitchener, Ontario. Peter’s pal Rob had invited us over to his place to watch an important football game. Although Peter has little interest in football, the event provided a wonderful opportunity for the boys to consume vast amounts of beer.

Playing the role of dutiful ‘wife’ I endured the afternoon whilst the two members of the opposite sex cheered, groaned and guffawed depending upon what was occurring on the screen.

Davina--my saviour

When it came time to leave, I paid a visit to the washroom. I’d had two beers myself. Peter must have sloshed down around ten or twelve, but when I suggested he might care to visit the can, would he listen? Of course not. He’s a bloke. And an Australian to boot. Why would he heed the advice of a mere Sheila? He’d be fine until we got home—about a twenty minute walk.

Well, off we go. Ten minutes into the walk, our hero begins anxiously looking around for somewhere to sneak behind to relieve himself. But there’s nowhere. We’re on a main street with nothing but stores. “Why didn’t you go back at Rob’s?” I inquire.

“I didn’t need to then,” he says.

Duh! Why anyone who’d just knocked back almost a gallon of beer wouldn’t realize it would have to come out—quite soon—is beyond me. I can only assume that the alcohol had dulled his reasoning—or, more likely, removed it entirely.

Anyway, my lord then informs me that we might have to pick up our pace a little. So now a pleasant afternoon stroll turns into something just short of an Olympic event.

But after a couple of minutes Peter makes another proclamation. Looking a trifle desperate now and not a little green around the gills, he announces. “I’ll have to run”.

So off he goes…..full tilt up the street and around the distant corner.

A few minutes later I round the corner – no sign of our desperado. I’m walking past a park that’s fringed with bushes when I hear a hissed, “Dee”. I look around. I see nothing but shrubbery. Then again, more urgently, “Dee!”

Finally I spot a rather sheepish-looking face all but invisible within the foliage. A hand issues forth holding the house key. “I’ve had a bit of an accident,” he announces. “Can you bring me back some pants?”

At this point I catch a glimpse of his two-tone Levis and double up with laughter.

“Dee, this is not funny,” he rebukes me sternly.

Au contraire, I think. Anyway, off I go—grinning from ear to ear. I return shortly to our stricken hero with trousers, a towel and a plastic bag.

I no longer have to remind him of the incident—a knowing look is all it takes to prompt an après beer drinking visit to the washroom.