Let’s Sort This Shizz Out #2 The Prada Poop

They say there is nothing that holds more mystery than a woman’s handbag. Mine’s less mysterious, more gross in fact I’d go as far to say I wouldn’t recommend going into mine in fear of having your hand bitten off by a mouldy sandwich (it’s been known)

My nan’s being going on at me for years to clean the things out but I’m just that lazy. So lazy I forget to pay bills, get late payment charges, loose letters – miss medical appointments because I’d rather not get prodded and poked only to be told by a DR. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, you’re just built that way’ AKA there’s nothing wrong with your stomach you’re just fat.

My stomach has been a git since towards the end of university. Like I said I’ve always been a bit of a fatty round the midriff but there’s a difference between rolls you can squash into spanks so the fat comes out your armpits and a hard weird looking bloat that gets you seats on the tube.

The first time I saw a DR. about it he said it was gas and recommended Activia yogurt – always been a fan of strawberry and costs less than an NHS prescription win!

The second time I tried to stop eating wheat, it was pretty fashionable back then, it was before the time when it came with a separate menu in restaurants and the free from isle in Waitrose was a right treat. But fed up of consuming bread for breakfast that squeaked  I soon gave up.

Now for breakfast I tend to have a combination of Mebeverine, Cyclizine Hydrochloride, Citralopram and a few token Kalms to take the edge off before deciding if I fancy scrambled egg again or not. Because it was only when moving to this remote village that a medical professional started to take my gut seriously and now I’m a walking pill popper .

Still getting nowhere I went back to the Doc this time last year being like ‘dude if there’s not a baby in there and satan up my ass what’s going on.’ Now this is easier said than done…

They gave in and did bloods that showed nothing and asked me to go home and come back a glamorous little present- the dreaded stool sample. Now answer me this, if you’ve had an upset tummy for the best part of a year how the hell are you meant to get the plastic sample bottle in the right position at the right time and even accomplish the capture of said ‘stool’ if your bodies pretty temperamental when it comes to making a solid one.

I tried and failed so many times to the point that when I finally thought i’d got somewhere I was so grossed out by the ordeal that I vomited and dropped in back down the loo again and was there back to square one wondering if death by gin would be a kinder way to go

Me and the downstairs toilet of my grandmother’s house were on deep and meaningful terms. I went back to the quacks and a nurse offered me one of those grey cardboard vomit hat things to catch it and then scrape it out, the nurse even offered to do it for me but ironically for the first time my stomach didn’t want to budge. I remember sitting at home, staring at this grey hat thing and gagging at the thought of scraping stuff out of it and inside wanting to scream, ‘HOW THE HELL IS EVERYTHING THAT GOES INTO MY BODY, COMING BACK OUT AGAIN BUT I’M STILL FATTTTT!’

Really didn’t seem fair. So I left it.

Naturally this kind of thing was a bit difficult being a newly single lady looking to snare prince charming. I was already traumatised by my ex telling some guy down the pub that he heard me using the bathroom the first time I stayed over and thought it was rude… you know what is rude mate? Listening in on someone on the bog!

And so from there the art of running the tap and filling the toilet with tissue paper was formed. I was living in a shared house with five others at the time and luckily there were two toilets to go round and someone had an en suit which took the sharing ratio down slightly. But as I wasn’t particularly close to anyone it was a difficult thing to talk about leaving me praying my stomach would save doing it’s worst when working from home during the day.

I was seeing someone, it wasn’t serious, they were heading off to film school in September and had a habit of telling me they loved me when off their tits as it was something to do. They were in my bedroom and I had called a cab to go back to my nans and drop them in town en route. I’d gone to the toilet before leaving, Chanel perfume at hand, Andrex at the ready and had a small urica moment. I wasn’t sure weather it was the mixture of the wine from the night before mixing with the organic brunch I’d consumed in the pub down the road but something solid was leaving my body for the first time in what felt like weeks.

I reached for the sample jar and panicked, it was back in Sedgley and I had a tight window to make the decision of a) do I leave it and pray something else comes out later to take to the doctor to dissect or b) to I attempt to salvage what I can and get it back to Sedgley.

Now any normal, sane of mind person would have gone for the rational conclusion of option a), but we all know I have never been a rational, sane or remotely normal person.

So naturally I did what any idiot desperate to get their bowl diagnosed would, warped said poop in tissue paper, deposited it in a sandwich bag and placed into my vintage purple Vintage Prada handbag.

‘The Cab’s here!’

Shit I forgot about him. Okay so now I have to smuggle myself and the handbag out of the bathroom whilst attempting to look entirely normal and not like I’m handling toxic waste.

I hurriedly wash my hands, bleach the toilet and get into the taxi, clutching the handbag the entire 30 minute drive to Sedgley praying no one asks me to open it.

What the hell am I doing. Have I finally lost the plot? I’m transporting my own poo in a Prada sodding handbag, I could have at least reached for a primarni clutch to throw away? Well if I’m going to transport poop anywhere it may as well be in style…

Some time later after transferring said poop to its new home in a sample jar in the fridge ( praying no one confused it for last nights chipolata hot dogs) I went over to my friend’s house for a Friday night glass of fizz. Asking about my day I responded with oh ‘so and so came over and I finally did a proper poo so I bought it home…’ Just as natural as that the story just slipped out and she decked herself with laughter and we laughed and cried until our stomachs were tight and hurting and we couldn’t laugh anymore – because this is how ridiculous my life had become.  Please don’t ever do that again Laura.

After all that, when the stool finally came back from the labs (after dropping it off incognito in a padded paper envelope) it was deemed ‘normal’ normal? I wanted to scream ‘what’s normal about a poo you have to transport across the midlands because you don’t think you’ll be able to do a normal one again?’

A year on when I changed Doctors my new DR. looked at my notes and said they’d only tested it for bugs to see if I had an infection rather than a condition of any kind, my bloods had barely been tested for anything and I had effectively been fobbed off and the whole grueling process had to begin again.  In the weeks that followed I had several meltdowns about other things, my rants on Facebook were like a public meltdown taking me back to behaving like I was in my early twenties. To take the point of thought away from my illness I began to obsess over other things.  Had I rushed into my current relationship too quickly? Not long separated from his wife am I even that special? Do his family think I’m worlds biggest idiot (because I would) does it look like History repeating itself…

But it wasn’t and it’s not and ironically if I hadn’t moved to a remote village where a group of Mother’s at the school gates started texting around that I was ‘clearly pregnant’ there’s no way I’d have run to the Doctors in tears being like please sort me out before I lie in a grave titled ‘Here lies LPJ- Death from village Gossip.’

Focus goes from the amazing things I do have to everything I don’t I get bitter over money, resentful of my parents, envious of a life I never had – act like a teenager who’s been give a Myspace account for the first time.

But then I think back to that Prada poop. You can dress anything up, you can carry a manky crap round in a piece of designer leather, spray it with chanel perfume to doll it up but it’s still just a peice of shit in a Prada handbag.

And maybe we need to stop carrying that shit around, because it weighs us down, maybe instead of worrying about what we don’t have, get rid of the things we don’t need – as blocking ourselves up will only dull our sparkle and bloat our lives with unnecessary drama – leave the shit behind don’t bring it with you.

This post has taken two hours due to three toilet trips and two baths but that’s just because I’m at home and I can. Things may take a little longer but that’s okay, I’ve never been the quickest and if I can manage to accompany kids swimming this afternoon, take one down the slide and the whole ordeal to not end up like that scene in the second Inbetweeners movie (lol) than anything is possiable.

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