The Blight of the Ageing Bladder

To Pee or Not to Pee, That is not a Question.

Like most serviceable plots, the story of life was once all those things which happened between trips to the loo. In the last few years, urination has become the central theme of my day, as well my writing - a tale expelled, like so many, in painful dribs and drabs.

In a last-call Faustian bargain, the exact terms of which I am a little hazy on, I sold the use of my bladder to a French rugby team for half a pint of wine. Now I pee on the thankless behalf of a 23-man squad of port-guzzling Bordelais brutés.

Just my luck, I own a bladder with the volume, function and control of 1 ket-baby. The first signal my mind affords me that I need a tinkle is that my body is already having one.

Continence is wasted on the young. Nobody under thirty needs the toilet.

I ran for local office on a radical platform of the court-mandated age-descending order of restroom queuing.

We say:

Those That Can Wait, Should.

I “vowed” we would also tackle the preposterous wait times outside female restrooms. Naturally, backpedalling while flipflopping on day 1, which, verbally-speaking, is far easier than it sounds. To my credit, in an act of political compromise, I tackled a line of women outside a public bathroom. Charging out from the Ladies’ washroom, smelly and embarrassed, I made a measurable, grass-roots impact on the issue. This is the politics of action.

Anyhow, the best pee beats the worst orgasm, pants-down. Hard-fought relief is its own reward. As I age, I realise an absence of pain is a pleasure all unto itself. Orgasms are naive - and you can plant that message in your front garden - also, perhaps, at just thirty-four, I am too.

However, I will wait one foot pressed onto another, like an incontinent flamingo, until my wisdom catches up with my pipes. Oh, how I long for the winged reassurance of Gentleman’s piddle pads.

Until then, life is what happens when making toilet plans.

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