The anus that saved the day

I have a dodgy tummy.

I am not ashamed of this matter anymore.

I frequently tell my boss I have a runny tummy and will provide explicit details such as

‘It was a riot and I ruined the porcelain therefore I am unable to be at work by 9 am I am afraid’.

Normal standard chat. In fact, I am so poo obsessed (I believe Freud calls this ‘anal fixation’, it’s a thing guys, look it up) that I will not under any circumstances leave the house until I have gone to the loo. Yes, watch me be graphic online. I am not ashamed of my bodily functions anymore. Getting too old to, (excuse the pun) give a shit.  Call the #poopolice. I am hilarious. Obviously.

One very dreary, rainy classic London Tuesday (it was a long day at the office, made worse by the fact that I knew I had vegetables waiting for me at home in my desperate attempt to hang onto the last bits of my ‘twenties body’). I trundle to get home only to find the front door was just lying on the ground.  Basically there was no fucking door. In this moment, my last three brain cells were trying to gather together to understand what had happened, the little cells had actually thought, “oh, would you look at that!  The door has fallen off from a gust of wind”.

Imagine my brain thinks this.

It took a couple of seconds to realise that actually, we had been robbed. Anyway. My bedroom (which is already a shambles on a normal day) was an absolute riot. Clothes everywhere, underwear everywhere, even my poor teddy got thrown on the ground. Poor teddy. He has had to deal with me talking manically to myself (and him) for years, and what does he get, he gets thrown on the ground. A real trooper that one. I am amazed he hasn’t run away to be honest ALA Toy Story style., my eyes scanned over the room and my thoughts automatically jumped to….

THE BAGS, MY BAGS! MY LOUIS! MY MULBERRY’S MY GUCCI’S! I AM SHALLOW AS ALL HELL. I NEED THE BAGS TO BE SAFE! STUFF ANYTHING , PASSPORTS, IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS I DON’T CARE … BUT THE BAGS!

Scrambling around, I discovered that, these robbers were pretty crap at their ‘job’. The bags were safe. Yes, I am shallow and buy hand bags. Shoot me.

I bet these robbers, who were perhaps drug addicts could have bought a bunch of crack with the money from the bags. What do you call a collective lot of crack? Bunch of Crack? I don’t know much about drugs, way too much of a control freak and scardy pants (by the way, this control freak thing, ties in with the anal fixation phase, Freud has the answers to everything, LOOK IT UP). Everything scares me. London scares me. London children scare me even more. Okay anyway, so bags are safe. TV is still there, weird, bottle of Moet is still there, also weird.

Clearly they are classless.

Another thing to note, is that I never ever have cash on me. Like ever. So this one time, I had left some money on my shelf. ONE TIME.

BUT, what I had also left on my shelf, was my bum cream (yes, Anusol. is the name of the cream, used for hemorrhoids in case anyone is wondering you apply it twice a day and your bum is as good as new). The tube is obviously actively used, kind of squeezed in awkward places, like tooth paste. It is right there on the shelf, staring you in the face. YOU CAN’T MISS IT. I had left half of the money by the books on the shelf, and the other half underneath the Anusol. It was a decent amount of money I had left (unintentionally) under the bum hole cream.

All the significant money that was left under the Anusol was untouched. It is also worth mentioning that they seemed to have stopped their robbery beyond the point of the Anusol discovery.

I have my anus to thank for saving my handbags. Thank you, to my anus. Who would have thought?

I will say anus one more time for effect :

A N U S.

Bye.