Toilets, or lack thereof...
I was in a hospital bed, on an NHS ward, on spinal precautions (stuck on back, not allowed to move, unstable spinal fracture) and they didn't even allow me a bed-pan, so I basically had to crap the bed, which would then be cleaned out. Unfortunately I was so full of morphine that I couldn't even poo, and had had enough laxatives, both oral and suppository, to unblock a regiment. Nothing.
I had had surgery twice in three days and the second general anaesthetic didn't agree with me too well. I had a fairly major psychotic episode and had texted everybody in my phone to say that the ward was being run by Al Quaeda, and that they were about to kill me. So eventually family and friends gathered around to try and cheer me up, when I felt everything starting to move... I motioned all to leave the vicinity of my bed and draw the curtains. An horrible sound ensued, accompanied by pathetic mewlings of ring-splitting pain from myself as I shat seeming yards of rock-hard faeces.
When the bedding had been mucked out, my good friend Holf was first to be brave enough to come back. He reckons I was practically floating above the bed with a beatific look on my face, blissfully unawares of the unholy smell that still lingered...
( PastorSauce : easy on the anchovies..., Fri 2 Sep 2005, 18:01, Reply)