The first stop

The road to Scotland part 2.

I filled up with petrol on the way to work knowing a tank would get me to my first stop. Soon after leaving work a warning light came on, I didn’t know what it meant, stopped at a garage, Googled, found out, sorted it, light wouldn’t go out. This heaped an extra layer of angst to the trip.

I drove nearly 350 miles without a break. I stopped for essentials just short of my destination, the home of my niece Soapie, her husband Stihlman and one of their daughters, Red. I needed booze, chocolates and a toilet. I didn’t want to arrive empty handed and lose bladder control in their new house, that would be both ill mannered and humiliating. I can see that you may think, dear reader, that I over think things. Maybe so, but, I have always had a plan in place not piss my pants if it can be avoided.

After 5/6 hours sitting in a car my arse felt like it had spread exponentially and no amount of discreet buttock clenching made it feel less flat and wide. Seeing as I was amongst family, I mentioned it.

Stihlman suggested that a bucket seat in the car could contain an arse more efficiently than a regular car seat, so preventing the spread. He went so far as to infer that this is well known among men of a certain age and that this knowledge influences their car buying choices. This led to us pondering as a group if an arse moulding system was possible, a seat offering a choice of desirable buttock shapes. The use of such a seat need not be limited to extended travel situations but could be installed at home for those amongst us who enjoy a good box set and could do with a more pert derrière. I wonder if momentarily we thought arses were made of memory foam. I wouldn’t take much persuading that mine was constructed of a similar material. Quite firm but malleable, where this comparison breaks down of course is in my arse’s ability to maintain a shape, a shape other than that of a large arse that is. Or am I mistaken and this return to form actually increases the odds that my behind is made of a memory foam like substance?

Whatever.

I sat on a tiara one time. I didn’t feel it and surprisingly didn’t break it. I have a witness to this unlikely tale or I probably wouldn’t tell it.

Have you seen the tiara I left on that chair? Asked Saucy.

No, I say.

You’re not sitting on it are you?

Don’t be ridiculous, I’d know if I’d been sitting on a tiara ffs.

I stood up and there it was, on the chair, sparkly and undamaged.

I’m not sure that there is a moral in this story or if it is proof of anything, but there it is.