When I was four I was in a shopping centre or Mall, whatever you call it, with my dad. We were outside the newsagents and dad was talking to some man he knew who was wearing black shoes, all shiny. I really needed to go potty but dad was too wrapped up in his conversation to notice. I was squirming on the spot, holding myself and probably making little mouse noises. I really had to go and being a kid, I didn’t have much control. It could flow at any second.
Luckily, just when I had accepted my fate as a four-year-old architect of yellow pools, my dad noticed my rain dance, picked me up and swept me away to the little boys room. And oh jeez, was it close. As he was fumbling for ten pence to pay at the door I was just repeating “I gonna pee, I gonna pee” over and over. And I let go a trickle but just managed to hold on. So, in went the ten pence, he turned the handle, opened to door and rushed for a cubicle. Meanwhile, I was trying to unbutton my pants but my fingers were short and under developed and I couldn’t grasp the button properly. In the end, my dad had to do that for me but, by then, it was just too late and I had already let flow. So, after all that, I half wet myself and half wet the bowl. I started crying and giving out to my dad but I think, even as a four year old, I knew he did his best for me. Even if his best meant I wore wet pants all the way home.