The Crotch of the Matter

I’m traumatised, no really, I am! Last night I had a dream that I had to rescue baby crocodiles from the bottom of a large tank using only handkerchiefs and by swimming through the deep deep water to get to them. The water was full of sharks, I hate sharks (rather like Indiana Jones and snakes) and some of those sharks were evilly prehistoric. Good job baby decided to be really unsettled then, and kept waking me up from my slumber.
I can only assume that the trauma of nappy changing baby whilst baby is on the move may be doing it. The only other thing could be the conversation that I had with my next door neighbour yesterday. It was one of those conversations where you know that the other person knows and the other person knows that you know- if you catch my drift. The absolutely horrifying and humiliating thing that was known, was that the crotch of my trousers was undeniably soaking wet!
I know what you’re thinking and NO, I didn’t wet myself. I might be a bit slack at doing the pelvic floor exercises but I’m not quite that incontinent. So how did this situation arise?
It was quite a simple chain of events really. I decided to be brave and take the baby shopping at London Colney using the car near to the evening rush hour and his dinner time. It was all fine, although we did manage to get overcharged in Sinsbury’s as I usually do in supermarkets: why, why do the offers not register at the tills? Do they think I really want to be stuck with twice the amount of shopping and pay for the privilege?
The return journey was the problem, loads of traffic due to those special police flashing lights which signal nothing when you get there, apart from a very annoyed baby. I panicked, I find it really hard to drive when baby is screaming. He passes out everytime he gets really annoyed, its doubly hard to deal with on your own. So, I passed back a crunchy carrot stick, the man behind hooted as I let a small space build up in front. So, I edge the car forward, baby chose that moment to hurl the last carrot stick. OK, water, I grabbed my bag, ricking my neck in the process, keeping a close eye on the traffic and making sure we were safe all the time. Sod the man behind, he can wait a bit longer to check into his executive hotel suite. Suddenly the traffic becomes really free flowing, but its alright as I have the bottle in my hand. Only the lid to take off. That’s a cold sensation, (insert word for cattle testicles here). I forgot, its that stupid British made brand of beaker that has specially been designed to leak icy cold British water into its lid.
On my arrival home I spotted the neighbour, we live in a cull- de- sac so I cant just drive past. In the film of my blog the music from Deliverance is playing at this point. I know, I’ll do that fiddling in the car thing, I’m sure you know the one. Clearly, Ive been spotted and passing the time of day with me now becomes a major priority of the neighbour. Reluctantly, I get out of the car. Neighbours eyes dart toward my crotch, I look him straight in the eye. Hello, how are you? Yes, the fireworks were supposed to be good this year….
So, that’s how I find myself in one of the most embarrassing situations of my life and I didn’t think that anything could embarrass me ever again after having a baby.


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