There are things that should not happen to a chap, sights that should not be seen. Now, my father-in-law is a man’s man. He has spent years deep in the wildernesses of several continents prospecting, and wrestling bears, and biting the heads off snakes and generally defining rugged. He is the real deal, he makes Bear Grylls look like the fey, English boy-scout that he is.
I suffer from an abject horror of well, pretty much everything. I am British.
This morning I got up to go to the loo. I prefer to rise early to use the loo because there is less chance of any human contact, and therefore embarrassment. The bathroom is the source of most mortification for a Briton. I left the lights off as I weaved out of the bedroom, and my eyes took some time to adjust to the dim hallway. O cruel eyes. The bathroom door was open. My father-in-law enthroned. He greeted me jovially, “How’s it going, eh?” I fled. I ran. My senses overloaded, I threw myself under my duvet and wept like a child. Is there a support group out there?