Back home after several cups of coffee with her mum, Tabitha sank down on the loo seat. What a relief! It was all very well drinking the recommended eight glasses of water a day (plus tea, coffee, wine etc) but not if your bladder was the size of a peanut. OK, it was probably perfectly normal sized for a twenty-something female but it always seemed to scream ‘time for a pee!’ at the most inopportune moments. Like ten minutes into a movie when she was squashed into the middle row of the cinema between a man the size of Magic Johnson and a woman the width of a small bungalow. Both nursing buckets of popcorn that could have fed a small African nation for a week. And as reluctant to budge as a soon-to-be neutered spaniel on its way to the vet. Or – even worse – on a rickety old bus in the middle of nowhere in Indonesia where the choices were behind a bush where goodness knows what creatures lay in wait or a delightful hole in the ground with strategically placed foot markings on either side. That was a memorable trip, thought Tabitha. She’d been proud of her pelvic floor, lasting two excruciating hours until the relative luxury of the backpackers hostel.
She’d read somewhere, the National Geographic perhaps, that an elephant could urinate around 160 litres in one go. Or was it David Attenborough? Not who could pee so copiously, of course, just where that little gem of knowledge had come from. Apparently the average human managed a mere 600 to 1000 ml. Which was only a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, give or take. What was really fascinating, however, was that both elephant and human took about the same time to empty their bladders. She found that hard to believe. Ah well, the miracles of nature. A quick dry off, up with the pants and jeans, hands washed, time to make something to eat. Quinoa with feta and lentils, part of her new health kick. Although egg, chips and beans might be quicker. And tastier. She grabbed the door handle, turned it and … shit, no. Oh, damn and bugger! Tabitha gazed in horror at the handle, now detached and in her squirty soap-scented hand. She rammed it back on the sticky-out spindle thing and tried again. Nothing. It wouldn't budge. Not an inch. She was locked in the lavatory, just like the old ladies in the song.
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