We are yet to christen our new 'van on a number of fronts., but The Dragon has been requested that it would be preferable for matrimonial harmony if her arse does not touch the lavvy seat under any circumstances due to my highly pronounced ability to spasmodically spew in torrents at the thought of emptying any receptacle containing turds in transit. I intend to take no chances of her going for a wee and then saying " bugger it , I am here now so I may as well slip a little one out".
I was a marine engineer in a former life, and as a lowly cadet that the second engineer couldnt stand ( it's a round ball football thing, but Aussies perhaps would not comprehend the level of hatred a high ranking supporter of a team in black and white stripes could have for a subordinate from a place that wears the superior red and white variety )was monotonously given the task of climbing in the turd tank regularly to unblock the air jets that otherwise would kill the cacky eating bacteria. You do that for what seemed like a weekly occurrence for a whole 4 month voyage, constantly slipping on your arse even in light seas in a confined and unbelievably stinky dark space trying to push bits of wire into very small holes holding a torch in your mouth for light and you would think that any olfactory senses would have well and truly been cauterised, and sloshing around in your mates faecal matter merely second nature. However it is more a case of a modified version of the old Pavlov's Dog's syndrome. I am permanently mentally scarred for life. I think of Poo and I get a mental picture of a man with an outrageous Geordie accent with 3 gold bands on his uniform jacket sleeve pointing to the engine room, consigning me once again to turd tank patrol whilst downing his 15th can of Tennents lager for the morning.
Our van will be a poo free zone.Period.