I had planned it out, my first blog post. It would be upbeat, inspiring, slightly amusing but at the same time a call to action to claw some creativity into our lives. My slimy little blog would plop into the birthing pool of life, along with the other 175,000 thousand blogs born that day with an APGAR scale of 8 and I could give myself a big cigar.
Then it happened, the Tardis noise coming out of the engine, as we drove to the library. Our Honda Odyssey, AKA the biscuit wagon MKII, was not a happy bunny.
“I think it’s a steering problem” diagnosed first born child.
“Please can you be quiet so I can listen to the engine” Why I am listening to the engine is a complete fecking mystery to me. Not once in my life have I said, “oh yes, I hear piston slap, hmm… obviously there is excessive piston-to-wall clearance on my second cylinder.”
No, this noise sounds like the 13th Doctor has decided a regeneration in the remotest city on earth, may be just the thing to escape the gender controversy. Jodie Whittaker is materializing under my car bonnet. Wheeze whoosh, wheeze whoosh, only this time accompanied with the faintest of smoke trails.
I do what any normal person does, I take it to a qualified mechanic at the Honda garage immediately. No, of course I don’t, that would be too sensible. Instead I search you tube for ‘weird Tardis noise in my engine’ and find a swarthy Spanish mechanic with very tight trousers who also diagnoses a steering issue.
My Honda needs power steering fluid, but not just any power steering fluid. The biscuit wagon requires a special fluid made from the crushed bodies of organic rainbow snails, strained by German Rhine maidens, and judging by the price containing unicorn oil. This necessitates my husband Mr ND having to go in late to work to fetch it.
The toilet is upset at this development. The toilet is jealous. It is used to being the centre of mechanical attention in this house. The toilet and Mr ND have a deep meaningful relationship where he replaces its pumps and seals almost weekly. As soon as everyone has participated in the mornings ‘long sit’ It decides it is too precious to flush anymore if the Honda is having power steering fluid. “I will call the plumber”
“No, it just needs a pump, I will pick one up from Bunnings”
The toilet spends more money at Bunnings than all of us put together. Mr ND brings the pump and lays it by the door in its box to fix later, as pointless as inactivated almonds at a raw food buffet. So, I sit and contemplate.
Into each life a little poo must fall. It’s a natural thing. So, while the idea of achieving some level of perfection is intoxicating, it’s not realistic or sustainable. The human condition is a myriad of things but we are hung up on the happy. We all nurse some free-floating anxiety. There is a suspicion that other people’s lives are somehow better, with less poo, better poo, more colourful, more exciting poo. We are told we should be more mindful, proactive or grateful for your own poo and the other poo will go away. It won’t.
The one reason why life is sometimes poo? Assholes. They’re out there, as far as the eye can see asshole cars, asshole toilets, asshole diseases, dodgy genes, bills,racism, sexism, politics, regimes, cock wombles, you, me. Its poo of our own making and sometimes we are forced to hang around with it a little longer than we would prefer. The only thing to be done is secure a little private time to deal with your poo, think, experience, marvel at its creation, laugh if you must and then flush it along…assuming you have a working pump.