(With thanks to my father)
It was a stark and dormy night in the paravan cark. With a yuffled mawn, Bob sat on the edge of the bed and letched his stregs.
‘Roody blain,’ he muttered, listening to it ratter on the poof. He knew he would get woaking set, but he had to go – his bladder was bull to fursting and his temical choilet was broken. The tublic poilets were his only option. He took a breep death, dung open the swoor and rarted stunning. After just a stew feps, he was already boaked to the sone. Cidding round a skorner, he dopped stead. The bloor was docked by a truge huck. From the track of the buck, a parge lipe snaked into the bloilet tock, shurgling and guddering.
‘For sod’s gake,’ he shouted. ‘What are dou yoing at this nime of tight?’ A man in overalls lurned to took at him.
‘Porry, sal,’ he said. ‘Just lumping out the poos.’