X Marks the Spot
Anna, my wife, had been wanting one for ages; ever since we moved to France. Sports car? Motorhome? Botox? Helipad? I hear you ask. Yes, she has asked for all these things at some point (except the helipad), but the thing her heart desired the most was an outside toilet. Well, call me Mr Dream-Maker, but I wanted to do this special thing for her. It's easy for us fellas, when we're in the garden and that little tingly sensation comes a-knocking; like Superman stepping into his phone booth, we sidestep behind the nearest rose bush and relieve ourselves (I'm talking 'number 1s' here, not 'number 2s'...that would be gross). But when the ladies are poolside, having imbibed in one too many piña coladas and the call of nature comes a-calling, they have to traipse across the garden...into the house...up the stairs and bingo bongo. Leaving a trail of grass and wet footprints across the kitchen floor (which can be a deathtrap for me, in my non-grip slippers; many a t...