Not THE wendy house. But A wendy house. Similar.
We went to a barbeque yesterday. It was the birthday party of my friend who lives very much en campo in a beautiful little cortijo up in the hills at the end of a long and very bumpy track. She and her husband lovingly built up the house themselves from a ruin. It has amazing views and a lovely terraced garden with vegetable patch and chicken house and plenty of room for fun stuff like swings and trampolines, and slides. Needless to say, it is huge fun for the kids.
Yesterday, we were all gathered up on the terrace for the barbeque. As well as a swing, scooters, mini-trampoline and wendy house there was also a huge paddling pool at one end and naked children wherever you looked. As I am sure you can imagine there was a lot of splashing, slipping, tripping, pushing, quarreling, crying and general hilarity going on. Lots of fun.
Bibsey was straight out of her party dress and into her birthday suit within minutes of arriving. She enjoyed the paddling pool until it all got a bit boisterous and anyway there was food to be scavenged.
An hour or so in I was sitting chatting with a nice woman, who I hadn’t met before, about the education system and general stuff about living in Spain. I scanned the terrace to find Bibsey so that I could point her out. She wasn’t far away of course. She was bent over the little kid’s cooker in the wendy house, no doubt cooking up a storm. I said:
“That’s my little girl over there in the wendy house with erm…
an enormous poo hanging out of her bottom!”
In the time it took me to cross the terrace with my catcher’s mitts at the ready, the poo had succumbed to the force of gravity and now sat in a small pool of wee on the floor of the wendy house. Bibs then stepped daintily out of the house, for all the world as if it was a Glastonbury portaloo, and said to me something along the lines of “there’s a poo in there mummy”, and left me to it. Mr B, who by this point was also alive to the situation, was on hand, yet at a distance, with wipes but sadly – for our purposes here at least – no camera.
And so this is how I came to be on my hands and knees, in the heat of the day, with my arse sticking out of a wendy house, picking up poo with my bare hands in front of an engaged audience of barbeque goers. Whadayado eh?
Well here at Bibsey Towers we say: pick up the poo and carry on. For similar stories, that focus loosely below the belt, click the banner below. And please do leave a comment or a link if you have any good poo stories that you want to share?
