As regular readers will by now be aware, it's perpetually Summer in my fevered and occasionally delusional mind.
So, despite the drizzle that, even as I type, is ushering in the saddest of all months, I decided that sunshine on a plate would be a good idea for Sunday lunch. Hence, Tapas. Or something like.
Not that I was mad-hungry to be honest, but a little bit of the Mediterranean slooshed down with something Mediterranean in a bottle seemed like a good idea a few hours back.
My precise order was: Goat's cheese, Falafel (and no, I know it's not Spanish but the establishment I was in pretended it was) and good ol' chunky frites (ditto). Vinegar for les Frites please.
Wine of choice: Pino Grigio.
Life was good there for a while, pop-kids. However, just prior to paying the bill I noticed the odd... twinge or two, down below. Thought not too much of it at that stage.
It was only in the car on the way home that this seismic activity began to move further up the Richter scale, and inform me that something truly worth worrying about was taking shape in the darker recesses of my Anal Staircase.

A hasty decision had to be made, and I decided that a detour to a local Morrison's supermarket in search of sanctuary was in order. Luckily, it was one with public toilets, though the Gents only just managed to qualify as such. Toilet-seats are apparently optional in this particular outlet, but it was preferable to a bottle-bank in the car-park. (I'll leave you to wrestle with that particularly disturbing image).
When I crashed through the door moaning and groaning, I found the sole cubicle to be occupied. Only by accessing a higher state of consciousness, Ninja-style, could I avert a sani-sonic disaster that would've seen me banned from Morrison's supermarkets for life.
I must now, dear reader, draw a veil over the ensuing 10 minutes or so. It was not pretty, quiet, dignified or holy.
Whatever the case, the day was saved, and I staggered out into the sunshine, tearfully thanking the God of all things... toilety.
Amen.