The Clatty Hand.

I had to jump in the car today to do a quick run to the nearby supermarket as we’d run completely out of Digestives, and if ‘Pregnasaurus Rex’ doesn’t inhale her daily craving of semi-sweet biscuity goodness before 10 am, then hiding yourself in the shitter will do you no good whatsoever as she rips the roof and bites you a new center parting with yon massive spades she calls front teeth.

It’s wiser just to brave the rain and cold outside, throw on your quickest fastening shoes and get your ass to the shop as soon as you can, hoping that the McVities lorry has been and the delivery man was fleet of foot getting those boxes in and ready to rock.  I hit the bypass and sank the foot (legally) toward the shop, noticing as I gripped the steering wheel in concentration that there appeared to be a small blob of brown ‘something’ just above the cuff of my right hand.

I thought it was nothing more than a bit of stray chocolate that had attached itself to my shirt, so using my left thumb and forefinger I pinched a bit off and raised it to my mouth to taste it. Luckily however the gods of common sense must have looked down favorably upon me this day, as I stopped myself just short of first contact, and instead decided to sniff the brown debris that now coated my two fingers.

Sure enough, the distinct aroma of poop hit my open nostrils as I near spun the car off the road and through the barbed wire fence into the field beyond. Composing myself I managed to straighten up the car while I managed to pinky-finger-maneuver the Magic Tree air freshener around my head so that it hung over my nose like some kind of really cheap Bane mask.  Pulling into the supermarket car park, I tucked and rolled out and ran round to the boot of the car holding my contaminated hand out before me with my right hand like I was trying to desperately stop it from killing me. I fished some old baby wipes out of the back of the car and then spent ten minutes decontaminating every square inch of exposed flesh that may have even glanced at my shitty digits..

And now as I sit here writing this, I still have no idea how my sleeve got itself a Malteser sized dollop of shat onto it. I hadn’t worn the top for a while, I hadn’t changed any nappies with it on as the Destroyer is currently going through the transitional period of dropping logs into perfectly clean pairs of pants instead. Could The Roobs have spooned up a wee slice of ‘Mr Whippy’ after one of her movements and then put it on my jumper as way of punishment for having the audacity to eat the last fragment of my easter egg? Maybe the dog had managed to balance on his front paws to get his rear end up high enough to wipe on there?  Maybe it WAS chocolate, but just smelled really flippin’ bad because it was made somewhere horrible, like Wick?

Who knows. All I know is that the staff at the shop now know me as the fat man who ran around their parking lot like he was on fire, before coming inside and sweatily bundling 25 packets of Digestives onto their counter.

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