Here we go, here we go again

Yesterday I journeyed cityward to uni to buy books for next semester, which starts next Monday. It was the coldest day in twenty years—not a good day to go out! When I woke up my room was balmy and warm, due to the heater that doesn’t get turned off (I have one of those oil radiator heaters that you can leave on overnight, it’s a lifesaver!), but when I stepped outside into the bitter cold I was jolted into the reality of winter. I’m not a winter person; I know that the Australian winter pales in comparison to other more snowy locations like North America, but nonetheless I don’t do cold well. The pot plants in the front yard were covered in ice—dew had settled on them and frozen into a two inch thick block of ice—and the windshields of the cars were covered in thin glaciers.

I was rugged up in long pants, three shirts, a sloppy joe that is slightly too small for me (it’s the strangest thing, I bought a medium and it fit in the shop but it shrank slightly in the wash so I’m going to have to stretch it into shape by washing it and hanging it out sopping wet with weights at the bottom to stretch it back), gloves, scarf and beanie. I got on the train, where thankfully the air-con was working today (unlike the tepid temperature of my last journey) and settled in for the trip.

After the warm train, the biting cold of the city was a rude shock. I arrived at Railway Square in the city at 11.30 and met up with Nicki, my partner in crime. We hopped a bus to uni and went to the bookshop. The day was full of a series of being warm indoors and frozen outside. After buying books, I went to the library to borrow a few textbooks that I didn’t want to buy, and we went to Manning for lunch. The salad bar there has the best Italian pasta salad—penne pasta, juicy sundried tomatoes, roasted eggplant—and the best Caesar salad. It was closed. We went to the place upstairs and I bought their Mediterranean salad—thin spaghetti, dry sundried tomatoes, artichoke, and a proliferation of basil leaves. It was terrible. Nicki got wedges; they were terrible too. Every time we go to this particular place we are consistently disappointed. Even the coffee was bad. “If they can fuck up wedges then I’m glad I didn’t get the tortellini” Nicki remarked. I concurred. We will never eat there again!

So after lunch we headed to Central to go home. We were discussing reality TV and I admitted, guiltily, that I had watched Last chance learners and she said that she couldn’t understand how anyone could be that bad at driving. I said that I guessed some people just aren’t built for it. She commented “yeh, I get that, I mean I’m a good driver except I can’t play the play station”. “What!?” I said, “while you’re driving?” “No...you idiot...I can’t play car games on the play station. No one can play the play station while driving.” Well, didn’t I feel like an idiot. We laughed so loudly, and with such gusto, that the man in front of us turned around and looked at us with a shocked look on his face. “Right. This is going on the blog!” We arrived at Central and I had a worrying feeling in my stomach…

[Anyone who does not like stories about shit should skip the next few paragraphs. I'll let you know when you can start reading again.]

One of my more interesting symptoms of ME/CFS is Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), which means that I get diarrhoea and cramps at the drop of a hat, particularly after eating foods with lactose (I’m lactose intolerant as well) or acidic foods. Yesterday I had a mini foccacia with cheese in the morning and the sundried tomatoes at lunch time so in a way it was my own fault. Upon walking into the station I felt the need to shit—now—and knew that it wouldn’t be easy to hold it in until I got home, two hours later. While I generally abhor using public toilets for my number-twos, there are times when one has to just bite the bullet and get on with it. That said, I refuse to sit on the toilets in the men’s room at Central station (and anyone who has ever had the misfortune of doing so will completely concur I’m sure) so I always use the disabled toilet for these things. It was locked. I asked a guard to let me in and he told me to ask at the information counter.

I joined the line, behind a young man and a young woman, and waited while clenching my buttocks. The man being served left the window of the information desk and was promptly replaced by a seventy-something man, who pushed in line in front of the young woman. “You have to be quick these days, don’t you?” the man in front of me said. The young woman and I laughed; the old guy didn’t hear. I looked at my watched and realised that if I waited for these people to do their thing, got the key, shat, gave the key back, I would miss my train. I left the line and went to the men’s room.

I couldn’t do it. I saw the state of the toilet and had visions of hepatitis and god-knows-what so I just peed and waddled back to Nicki, buttocks clenched. We went through the ticket gate and headed for the train. “Ok Nic,” I said, “I have a conundrum, and I hope you realise how close I consider our friendship by telling you this…I need to shit—now—and I was going to go in the disabled toilets but they were locked and the line for the key was long, and there’s just no way I’m going in the men’s and I don’t think I can make it home” (at this point she laughed at my misery, like a true friend) “so I was thinking, should I go in the toilet on the train?” After the laughing subsided, she said that I should go now while the train was stationary and get it over with. So I left my bags with her at our seat and went to the small toilet on the train.

I hate these toilets almost as much as the men’s at Central. They’re small, they often smell and they feel dirty. As I walked into the small cave-like room I was hit by the smell of lemon-fresh disinfectant. “Well,” I thought “at least it’s just been clean”. So with a little trepidation I sat down and did the biggest, smelliest shit in a long time. It was such a relief, I can’t describe it. I flushed, washed my hands and quickly slipped out before anyone would realise the stench issuing from the small toilet was at my hand.

[Squeamish readers: continue from this point.]

I sat down, blissfully cramp-free, and we travelled home in comfort.