Back and Back Again

Where Robert lives they have an agricultural show each year. There are pens of animals, rabbits in cages, plates of vegetables and flowers, tables of jam, a beer tent, lots of little girls and their ponies– all set around a marquee where they award the prizes. We only went for a quick look round after our midday snack hoping to be back for an afternoon in the garden.
The field where the cars are parked being some distance from the show site we had to join a crowd picking its way through the heaps of dung left by the cattle. I spent ages along the row of cages with pets. Again there was a lot of dung. Moving on to the ponies I had my third encounter with this dung, which the country people seem quite happy about. Whether I lack proper observational skill or just have big feet I found I had picked up a fair bit on my shoes. While I stepped away from the crowds to clean up Robert went on to the machinery section and we became separated.
During this separation Robert had to run an errand for someone he knew. He went back to the car intending to be back in ten minutes. As I couldn’t find him I reasoned that by sitting in the beer tent he would eventually find me. There’s no point in avoiding one of the pleasures of such an event so I tried a pint of shandy. Robert still hadn’t appeared so I tried another.
Later it transpired that he had arrived back home to find that the central heating had sprung a leak and needed immediate attention. I wasn’t to know that and became more agitated as the interval grew to an hour. Fed up with waiting I decided to go back to the car. When it was clear that it had gone I made up my mind to walk back home.
When I had been going about half an hour Robert spotted me. He stopped and we returned to the show in order to find out if his cousin had won a prize for a vegetable display. The results were to be announced in 15 minutes so we filled in the time with a drink. It was obvious there would be little time for our afternoon in the garden so we ordered a cream tea for after the announcements.
I ought to have made a trip to the ‘little rooms’ but with friends stopping by and introductions to be made as well as the endless slow rural conversations it had to be set aside. All necessary tasks were finally completed and we began the trek back to the car. You could say I was ready to leave, but what I really was ready for could not be accomplished in that direction. Yet again, there was a diversion and Robert had to help push a cattle wagon out of a muddy hollow. Standing by the car hopping from leg to leg, the time froze.
“Sorry about that,” said Robert, “you must be bursting!” A trifle put out, I replied “No more than usual.” We were almost back home when a van going the other way flagged us down and a character from a Thomas Hardy novel sprang out. “Someone’s let the pigs out at the show field and we need anyone who ever shifted a sow to help get them back before they reach the motorway!” I admit it was an emergency but I did feel my right to a toilet break might have come first.
We spun around in the road and raced back again. Now– I have never so much as touched a pig in my life and I didn’t intend to start. I was going to pee, somewhere, anywhere, and I was going to do it soon. I can be quite determined about some things. Off went Robert with the historical leftover shouting that he’d see me at the tea stall. This is the first and only time in these stories that I’ve felt anything other than deep affection for Robert.
Left to find my own way to the toilets, once more through the dung, I came upon my next problem. A very flustered woman stormed by me saying to a man behind her, “It’s a disgrace– they should have been properly set up.” She was talking about the toilets. The pigs in their panic had overturned them, spilling the contents and severely embarrassing one or two customers.
It could have been amusing if I had not intended to be one of the next customers. You would be right if you said I was annoyed, which is strange for me. It all appeared to be the fault of the yokel in the van. I somehow thought the pigs were his. Back at the car away from the people, I racked my brain for a solution to the pee dilemma.
There before me was the offending carrot–cruncher’s van. An idea formed. Trying the back door I found it open. Inside it was like a pigsty. More dung. I would climb in and pee in the man’s van. Separating your legs when an ardent need to pee is upon you requires some degree of determination but I succeeded in my aim. Skirt up, knickers down, and shuffle a bit to aim, oops! I slipped on the accursed dung and sat on my backside.
In my haste to get off the filth I peed both on my skirt and on the carefully removed knickers. Unable to regain proper control or balance I continued peeing while staggering about in a half crouch, slipping on the dung and ending up wetting my legs and holding on to the back of the seat. Skirt sodden, knickers soaked, shoes plastered with dung I tumbled out of the van to be confronted by the owner. “It’s all right lass they went the other way you’ll be quite safe.” He slapped me affably on the shoulder with a mitt as filthy as the inside of his van and didn’t notice my state.
Perhaps all these rural types live in such muck that they don’t notice a little extra. Thoroughly put out, I started back to the tea stall to make myself plain to Robert. Dung on my shoes, dung on my skirt, the yokel’s dung smelling hand print on my shoulder, piss dripping from the hem of my skirt I wouldn’t have wanted to have met someone like myself just then.
The unfortunate who did meet me was a show official according to his badge, a nice mild–mannered man. “Where can I get cleaned up?” I asked without preamble.
He must have had discretion as a middle name. “There is a powder room for the ladies at the back of the marquee” came the swift reply.
Looking neither to left or right I marched on. My anger soon died down but I still felt so dejected. Reaching the vicinity of the marquee a vast woman stopped in my path, spread her arms wide exclaiming, “My poor girl, did you get caught by the pigs as well? Come this way.” I had no choice but to obey, and in truth I wanted someone to look after me. Flourishing her arm towards the back of the tent she said, “You go straight in there and tell whoever it is that Mrs. Drumbody sent you.” It was either that or Mrs. Dromedary– I didn’t catch the name.
The next bit comes straight from an Ealing farce. Opening the flap of tent she pointed to, I was faced with a narrow corridor to right and left and another tent flap in front. All the muddy footmarks led towards this other flap. Stepping forward I lifted the flap and came across a couple of wooden steps. Looking carefully down to place my feet I relaxed at the relative privacy, thinking that at last the ordeal would be over.
Several things occurred at once. As I mounted the second step I realized that my pee was not complete– while flexing the overused muscles I was hit by the need to release again. Looking up I found myself not in a ladies powder room but on a stage looking out over a crowd in the tent. A man with a microphone turned and waved an arm at me saying, “Second prize for fancy dress,” while looking down at his piece of paper, “Arnold Piper”. There was a roar of laughter and my bladder let go. Those favorite pink panties were already so heavy with pee that when they became a little bit fuller the elastic couldn’t hold them and so they splashed to the stage.
It was a nightmare, I couldn’t even cry. The roar trebled in volume and everything became misty. Turning to flee back the way I had come I got tangled up in the canvas of the tent and slipped off the back of the stage, tripped by my panties. For a moment I lay on the grass back in the narrow corridor then there was an arm round me. It was Robert. “Quick back under the stage,” he said and rolled me below the canvas wall. Again I lay alone and trembling. There was a crash somewhere nearby and a lot of shouting. Robert reappeared with a white tablecloth, wrapped me in it and shepherded me out through the flap, across the show site, across the dungy meadow and into the car. He jumped in and handed me my poor panties.
At the field gate a Marshall said to Robert, “What happened in the tent? Arthur Piper’s son is going frantic, he thinks someone has impersonated him to get the fancy dress prize.”
I wouldn’t be telling this if there wasn’t some sort of happy ending.
It seems that Arnold Piper was a well known spoilt brat and the crowd had assumed that it was really him who had peed himself on the stage. The deception had worked because although he was only 13, he was as large as I am. All this was found out later on by Robert. The mistake was ironed out in the long run but not before most had gone home.
At the time I knew none of this and wanted to crawl into a hole and die. We were home in a few minutes but I sat and sobbed for quite a long time with Robert doing his best to both comfort and clean me.
I’ll draw a veil over the ensuing hour. It’s enough to say that my feelings were hurt. I vowed never to play hold it again, never to go out in public again, never to drink again. I told Robert that I wanted to be a nun and live in an enclosed convent.
As I said, it all ended happily. Robert had been looking for me after helping to corral the pigs and had just poked his head into the marquee to see if I was there, when I appeared on stage. His quick rescue included snatching a tablecloth from a cake stall incurring the wrath of its proprietor. During the evening he told me more than once that I was the most lovable girl he ever met. It does make a girl feel better.
As on other occasions after a wet session he looked after me so tenderly and for once I didn’t feel like a baby. His compassion isn’t the sloppy sort. It’s as though he had been me on that stage. As I cheered up his kindly nature made me realize what a treasure he is. I’ve decided that I’m not going to be a nun. I think I’m going to be a wife. I can feel it in my water!
I was right. Robert has given up trying to persuade me that I should lead a “normal” life and has said he will gladly marry me if I still feel the same on my 28th birthday. Only 11 months to wait.
What a wet and silly courtship it’s been, but I loved almost every minute of it.
Yours in gratitude for all those people who have written nice things to us– we are going to be a very odd but happy couple.
XX from May
Well, that’s about it. My name’s not really Robert nor is my naughty friend really called May. It looks as though we shall end up as plain Mr. and Mrs. She will insist that I give up my bachelor existence and get a regular job. I do hope she doesn’t turn out like her Mum. It’s not that the woman is unpleasant but she is so dull.
My parting words are for all the chubby, plain, lonely, girls who feel left behind by the fashionable world. There are a lot of us Roberts out here, odd balls, some quite weird. We don’t look like much either but being left behind by society means that we can offer some compassion. Look behind the eyes as May did and find what sort of person lurks there, you’ll probably find a friend who will still be the apple of your eye 30 years later even if he does remind you of Marty Feldman.
Yours Robert.
XXX Wet ones for all those left out in the cold.
Robert and May