Hello, reader (and that’s definitely "reader" in the singular),
It's been a while. Partly because I have shunned technology to spend time exploring the soggy delights of
a woman the Lake District...not with other Zezaurians, but with my parents. First observation: parents are much better company than people of your own age. They pay for everything. All food is totally free, you don’t have to pay for petrol and even accommodation is a just a given. I had my dad making me breakfast every morning for a week whilst my mother was busy preparing my daily jam sandwiches. They're like fleshy, good natured, mobile bank machines.
When you go anywhere in a car more than 10 miles with anyone your own age they suddenly demand that you chip in on the running costs of the car. Do you see me asking for you to pay X% of my gas bill for that time you crashed over and took a shower? No. Sod off. Parents are way better than your friends.
Anyways. The Lake District.
Here is Drib Drab senior and I arguing about what was better: hiking with a girly GPS device that tells you everything, including when (and how) to wipe your bottom – or a 1973 edition of A. Wainwright’s fourth book in his fell walking series. (the GPS won whilst we were still navagating our way out of the car park).
Unfortunately, despite how amazing parents are, they are also, generally speaking, a little frailer than people your own age, and as such mine sustained minor injuries that stopped them from climbing the highest peaks on Day Two. So, in true parenting fashion, my mummy made me some more jam sandwiches and sent me up the mountain range on my own (but with the GPS device strapped firmly around my neck).
The whole, lonely climb was pretty straightforward, except I was holding a wee in for about an hour and could never really find a spot to relieve myself -- there are no trees or bushes of any kind up there and I had been caught out the previous day when a group of children appeared from “nowhere” when I got my penis out by some trees. I kept on ascending higher and higher, with each step becoming more painful as I felt the searing hot pain of my exploding bladder bursting below my guts. I took a deep breath, however, determined to reach the summit before I relieved myself, as if it would be a little treat to for having reached the top.
I got to the summit pretty quickly, hopping about with no time to celebrate as I found a small boulder to crouch behind and let rip. I had to be careful though as there were a few other hikers up there and I didn’t want them to see what I was doing; as if taking a slash is somehow a mysterious and creepy-weird thing that only creeps and weirdos do.
I got down on to my knees, unbuckled my penis and let the hot gushes spurt out. It was a blissful feeling as my bladder drained; I even closed my eyes such was the pleasure I felt. However, with hindsight, that was my major mistake: it was as my eyes were closed that the most insane gust of wind literally curled the jet of piss into a perfect, horizontal U shape and sprayed it directly into my face. The weird thing is, I was so eager to get the fluid out of my body, and so keen to not be caught relieving myself that I just let it carry on that way for entire duration of the piss. Big fat yellow droplets of hot piss splashing in my face.
Within the space of 16 months I have accidentally pissed in my own face twice. I’m thirty years old.
On the upside my mother did all my washing.