Wetting Oneself...

Hippo and Happy New Year to you all!
Yes, ‘tis I! I am back to blogging and am kicking the year off with a tale of shame and urine - for what better way is there to introduce 2011?
And so… on we go!

Last year, when I was 21, I wet myself.

Now, I do not mean I metaphorically wet myself, or figuratively wet myself. No.
I mean that an (unfortunately large) quantity of urine was expelled from my bladder whilst I was still wearing my underwear *and* jeans.
I was outside, playing a crazy game in the garden with Mum, Dad, Michael and Charlotte, and something hilarious happened.

I don't remember exactly what this hilarious thing was, only that it had something to do with the ball game we were playing, and the fact that it was so funny that I fell over in hysterics and was unable to breathe.

As this amusing thing carried on I realised that not could I not breathe but that I also was laughing so hard I couldn't stand back up *or* move. At all. Cue the hideous realisation that I desperately needed to wee.

So imagine, if you will, that you are lying down in the middle of the garden. You are screaming with laughter and you literally can not move. And you need to wee more than you have ever needed to wee before in your life. Now imagine you have started to panic, but you are still half hyperventilating half laughing.

And, in between horrendous screams of laughter, you manage to start shouting 'help me! I'm going to piss myself!' over and over.

Now imagine your family standing there, still laughing at you. Doing nothing.

So what happens?
Yes. You wet yourself.

Suddenly my family realised that actually this isn't just another random laughing event in which I merely threatened them with an unwanted urine spillage, but that it had actually happened.

My brother ran around the garden, pointing and screaming 'Wee Girl! Wee Girl!'

My dad looked at me like he wasn’t quite sure what he should do.

 Mum just started laughing even harder.

None of them helped me as I stood, still laughing but now slightly wetter and warmer in the jeans department.

And so, alone, I waddled upstairs to the bathroom to immediately dump my pants and jeans into the bath and blast both them and myself with the shower before drying myself and getting into your pyjamas.

It wasn’t until later that I remembered the £10 note in my jeans pocket. I managed to salvage it, now a little damp and smelling faintly of urine.
I spent it the day after.