BusVommer
I used to live in Exeter but go to uni in Plymouth (janners, yay) which meant that for 9 o'clock lectures I had to be up and moving to get the bus for 6, and then leave again pretty much straight after I'd finished to get home again.

So I failed. Shocker.

Fortunately, I got to know some folks who were in halls so I frequently ended up buggering off into the union/pub/bar/club/chippy/kitchen table/floor sequence after lectures, like everyone else. After one particulary raucous outting (I think that we may have been in drag, which entailed some rather speedy, and if I say so myself, very skillful charity shop dredging for an outfit. It's the shoes, you see. everything else is easy, but size 11 heels? Top tip, go for wedges. Anyway....).

Next morning and I'm Hanging. Out. Of. My. Arse. I somehow drag myself to my first lecture and just sort of sit there, swaying, trying to focus on breathing. I'm thinking more about my own stabilty than that of various ships, and I want to go home. So I slink off, stumble down to the bus station (delightful place, charming trampy-company, beautiful ammonia odour). Bus comes, haul myself aboard and collapse in the first seat. Pass out.

Come to, and the motion of the bus has done something to me. Something bad. Bumclouds, she's gonna blow. Cast gaze about, searching for toilet. None. Going down dual-carriageway, can't stop. Hmmmmm, hang on, the front flap of my bag has water-proof pocket! That I NEVER use! Perfect!

2 minutes later, the deed is done, pocket zipped up sealing my shame. I even manage to wipe myself down thanks to the 3 rolls of bog-roll that I regulary nick from my mate's halls (I'm in a flat, they get theirs free. Don't judge me). I slip gratefully back into the welcoming bliss of slumber. Half hour later, driver wakes me up and boots me off, with about as dirty-a-look as I've ever received. He saw it all, and I don't think that he was terribly impressed. I go home, and collapse onto the sofa, to sober up and then moan.

Sooooooo, 2 months later and I'm sat in a cafe with my ex. We're having a lovely little chat, planning a holiday to Cuba. She's booking it and needs my passport details. I have brought it along, it's in my bag. I tell her just to have a rummage while I go and grab the drinks. Life is good.

I get back to the table. She doesn't look happy. To be fair I picked up a bit of a whiff from 20ft across the room. Arse.

I'm disgusting.
( kappynitty doubled your entendre on, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 15:57, 2 replies)

Was there satisfaction to be had picking clotted vomit off your passport ?
(ukraine space monkey, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 16:40, closed)

no, the passport was in a different pocket
but she didn't know that.....
( kappynitty doubled your entendre on, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 17:01, closed)