The warning THAT SHALL NOT BE IGNORED!

I feel that we've know each other long enough, dear reader, that I can openly talk about some of my more personal details with you. Details like my bowel movements. I'm regular as clockwork. Every day, between 9am and 11am is my allotted time slot. They always follow the same pattern too. It'll be some time mid-morning when you'll get the first little message, the first subtle hint that all is not well. You can normally ignore this two or three times before the need to 'make a deposit' becomes life threatening.

But not this week.

Oh no, something is most definitely up. "The game's afoot" as Sherlock Holmes would say. My body clock is all over the place, and the need to 'make a little room down below' can, and has, come at various hours of the day and night, and it hasn't been the usual 'three strikes and your out' type hints that my body has been giving me. My colon is currently like the French Resistance in 'Allo! 'Allo!, "Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once!"
At this point I know I have to get to a toilet ASAP, and once there, I'll be possessed by demons and find myself gurning and straining like Geoff Capes trying to pull a lorry with his teeth, and all I'll have to show for my efforts is something that I can only describe as being 'entirely the wrong colour'.

All of this should give you some impression of the kind of panic I felt last night, on my way home from work, at a standstill, whilst the police moved the aftermath of a road accident out of my path. I'd already been given my one and only warning by this point, 30 miles from home, nowhere near a petrol station, unable to turn the car around, and all I'll say is that there's not a court in the land would convict me for the excess speeds I achieved thereafter. I made it, but I'm pretty sure the girlfiend thinks differently of me this morning.