Old enough to be able to wait

It has occurred to me that there is some point in the process of growing–up when a person is somehow expected to have developed an ‘adult’ bladder with almost infinite control. That mysterious age when we were suddenly considered to be ‘big girls’ and that somehow we had been gifted with bladder control and capacity that many adults (including me!) could only envy. When I was taken to the Doctor with my ‘bladder problem,’ I had been told it would ‘get better as I grew up’ so I always looked forward to the time when I was ‘grown up’ and by some mysterious way would no longer suffer from sudden, frequent, and urgent needs for a loo. Before this time came I was, without being consulted, considered old enough to be able to wait the unspecified time that all ‘normal adults’ could last without great discomfort.
I have noticed this among fellow teachers who, probably without any malice, have pronounced that a certain class or group of pupils are ‘old enough to be able to wait, and not need to keep running off to the loo.’ Indeed, I can remember, when at school, being told along with the rest of my year, that we were ‘big girls and should not need to go to the loo so often.’ If only but the fact was, we, all of us, including poor tiny–bladder Nicola, managed to wait as long as we were expected to. Quite how this wondrous ability is obtained, I do not know and only wish I could find out how to develop it. I am, I’m almost ashamed to admit, past forty now, and still not always able to wait as long as expected, though many would tell me, or regard me, as ‘old enough to be able to wait.’
Well I know very well that I am not so old and unfortunately not always ‘old enough to wait,’ but I am old enough to be aware of my problem and to take all possible precautions, so normally I can cope with those situations when I have no real option but to wait.
But there was that first time when I did not know what was expected of my bladder control and I was so nearly caught out and only by luck and a huge effort on my part did I manage to ‘survive’ the situation without the ultimate failure, as a public knicker wetting would have been to me then. Probably because it would have seemed such a dreadful thing to do, I managed to avoid it by making what seemed like a super–human effort to control my bladder, (well almost!)
I was eighteen and in my final year at school, when, with a friend of the same age, we were invited on a coach outing with the local youth club. This was a chance for more social involvement with various boys of suitable backgrounds and ages, which seemed a good and relatively harmless idea at the time and met with general parental approval.
The outing, by coach, started at 8am and it was arranged for Paul, one of the boys who had a car to pick me up from home at 7:45. While, at that time, I had not developed the fear of coach outings I now have, I was only too aware of my frequent need for a loo and just before he was due I paid my last visit to the loo at home.
Note: In those long past days, the term loo was not in general use; we ‘wanted to go to the toilet’ and the only polite terms we could use were ‘toilet’ and ‘Ladies’, or we would ‘spend a penny.’ Hence like all sensible young ladies of that time I never went out without making sure I had some spare pennies in my purse. The standard charge for public loos then was a single penny, a much larger, more significant coin than the tiny 1 pence of today. Oh– and the relief it could buy in those happy times, before the days of Tardis things or super–loos that cost 10p or even 50p now. (Sorry about the nostalgia, I must be going senile.)
Paul seemed to have been the designated driver of that day, and having collected me, he then called for my friend Mary, who was also coming on the outing. We arrived at the coach meeting point in good time, which allowed me to look about and discover that there was not a handy Ladies’ that I could make a visit to at the last minute, ‘just to make sure I was completely empty.’ Note, I had no illusions about my capacity then, either, even if it had never occurred to me that anyone would be interested in such an embarrassing deficiency. I consoled myself that I had only just been and that I would be OK until the coach made its obligatory stop ‘for coffee, or to stretch our legs’, which I was absolutely sure it would do before I wanted a loo really badly, and joined Mary and the others on the coach.
Our journey started by crossing a lot of London, an area I did not know well, but seemed to be endless houses and suburbia. After about an hour on the coach, we were still in London and to my dismay, or worse, I suddenly started to want a loo. Really bad news, as on came a sudden sharp need to pee that started without warning. One minute I was fine and enjoying myself; the next I was bursting, not at all happy, on a coach with no loo and no indication of where, or when we might be stopping. This was an awful situation to be in, bursting for a pee and seemingly no hope of getting to a loo quickly.
All I could do was to squirm about on the seat and tuck one leg under me so I was ‘sitting on my foot’ my favourite and time honoured way of waiting when I wanted a pee; or to use the language I was using at the time, which I will use from now on to keep this story authentic, I badly wanted a Ladies’, to go to the toilet, or to put it more precisely, I was bursting. (A term I was using then, more often than I wanted to.)
It was still early, about 9am, still the beginning of the trip and I was bursting already! Not at all what I wanted and it was not going to make for a happy day’s outing. Luckily, sitting on my foot, with my heel pressing between my legs was a good way of helping me wait and made the situation easier. (It was virtually the equivalent of holding between my legs without being so obvious to anyone near me.) It was absolutely ideal for anyone in my situation then; bursting for a loo and really too shy to admit it. When I want to go at times like this, it is a sharp, urgent need to pee, that it is quite a struggle to hold back, not just an uncomfortable, full feeling that is bearable and takes no great effort to control. I do not have the strongest bladder control muscles and in such situations, when I want to go quite badly, I need all the help I can get to contain my pee.
The usual, leg crossing, is not enough help, and I am ashamed to admit that real pressure between my legs, either holding myself or from my heel, is what I need. So, on that coach outing in the bleak outskirts of London (South London! For those of you who know the area) I was bursting, with no idea of where or when we might be stopping so I could get to a Ladies’, and, as you might guess, I was worried! I wanted to GO! – Badly; and it was going to get worse, and I didn’t know how long it would be before we stopped at a Ladies’. All I could do was get my heel pressing hard between my legs, keeping my shoe on, so it pressed harder, and try to make the time until the Ladies’ stop pass more quickly. The only diversion I could think of on that coach was conversation; so I started talking to everybody around me, about just any subject that came into my head. Some surprised looks from the boys, as a girl started to chat them up, but I did not care, all I wanted was something to take my mind off my bursting bladder and make time pass more quickly until we could stop at a Ladies’.
In outer London there did not seem to be any chance of finding somewhere suitable for a coach to stop and let all the passengers use the toilet, but eventually, after a miserable half hour, we turned onto a major road, a sort of motorway and, oh wonderful sight! There was a sign for a Service Area; somewhere a coach would stop and where there would be toilets. It was 30 miles away, but I hoped we were going fast enough and that it would not take too long. How fast were we going? Fifty? Sixty? Miles an hour, how long would it take to get there? Maths was not my strong subject, but hopefully, more like desperately, I decided that it might take three–quarters of an hour and checked the time: 9:15, so we would be there by 10. All I had to do was to hang on until then and I would be in a Ladies’ and could GO. I tried not to think too much about going yet, as I wanted to go badly and thinking about a loo was not going to help me wait, only make it worse. I squirmed down on my heel, pressing it harder into me, and told myself I simply had to hold on until the service area. It did not seem too difficult for a healthy girl of 18, did it? To wait just over 2 hours since I had last been to the toilet when I left home, or to put it another way– hold on for another 45 minutes now I wanted to go. I had had enough practice in waiting, probably more than most girls of my age, and now I had to use all that experience, and make myself wait. I steeled myself to wait and began to try every trick I knew to help me wait.
I did not try anything elaborate, just the simple basics of waiting; squirm down on my heel to get the maximum of pressure between my legs, just as if I was holding myself, (the best way to wait! The instinctive way any girl will act when she really has to wait. And that morning I really had to wait, no excuses, I simply had to hold on until that service area.) Sitting on my heel as hard as I could, the next thing was to try to get the time to pass as quickly as possible. All I could do was to continue with my trivial conversations as a diversion from the bladder misery I was suffering; no Ipod or portable games in those days to divert my attention. Just old– fashioned conversation, to anyone who would listen. Paul, who had given me the ride at the start of the outing, was sitting nearest and he got the full benefit of my diverting conversation. This was the start of a relationship, because he thought that I had taken a fancy to him and began to take more interest in me. If only he knew. I am sorry to say, that morning I cared nothing for him or any other boy I was talking to. All that mattered to me was to somehow ease my need for a toilet and to help me wait until the coach stopped at a Ladies’.
As is always the case in a situation like that, the coach seemed to be going awfully slowly and the various signs along the motorway telling the distance to the Service Area were almost like a torture to me as it seemed to be taking so long, far longer than I had hoped, to be getting to the Service area and Ladies’ I wanted so badly. I was trying everything I knew to ease the strain on my bladder, to help me wait more easily and to make the time pass more quickly. But nothing I could do would make that coach go any faster and I soon began to realise that my original estimate had been too optimistic and that I was going to have to wait longer. Very bad news because I was already bursting! Even sitting on my foot I was struggling to hold on. I tried every position I could think of, to help me wait, to make me want to go less urgently, and I had to keep telling myself that I simply had to wait until we got to that Service area. Maybe I would have been better trying not to think about the Ladies’, but I wanted to go so badly that it was difficult to think about anything else. Conversation –sorry Paul– simply was not simulating enough to take my mind off my desperate need for a toilet, and the ‘Services xx Miles’ signs were a regular reminder of just how far it was to the nearest Toilet.
At last it was ‘Services 2 miles’ and I was nearly there. Time had been dragging so slowly as we got nearer and I wanted to go more and more badly. I was still thinking of my condition as “Bursting!” but I was a worse bursting than the start of the motorway.
It was bursting despite all my efforts to ease it or make it go away or make time pass more quickly, and the thought of the blessed relief I would get at the Service area was almost too much and was making me want to go more urgently. This was the last thing I needed when I wanted to go so badly that it was a struggle, even on my heel, to wait.
I was thinking “Oh thank goodness, nearly there! Not much longer to have to wait” as we got nearer the Services, and then, it was like a nightmare, I could not believe it! But we were not stopping. I (my bladder!) almost burst, and I almost burst into tears at the shock. We simply had to stop! I had been banking everything on the coach stopping at the Service area for the Ladies’ I so desperately needed, and I had never for one second imagined it would not stop there. I was so shocked I did not know what to do.
Hindsight says I should have made sure of the stop, by asking the driver or the organiser if we could stop, but I was a shy young lady and I did not want to admit that I was in desperate need of a Ladies’. Then it was too late; we were driving past the Services and NOT STOPPING. That was one of the worst moments of my life! Mentally, I was screaming out ‘Stop! Stop! We must stop! It’s an emergency, please, oh please stop!’ all to no effect.
The coach continued blissfully on its way with no thought for any bursting bladders onboard. I had been so sure we would stop and I could get to the Ladies’ that I had not thought of the possibility of us not stopping. I was desperate for a Ladies’, only just about able to wait even sitting on my heel and so frantic I was willing to go almost anywhere. For a moment I was going to ask the organiser and the driver if the coach could stop somewhere as soon as possible, so I could ‘go’ behind the hedge. The fact that there was not a hedge on the motorway did not concern me; I just wanted to go so badly that my only thought was to get out of the coach and squat by the road, hopefully behind some cover and go. I was in a terrible state, almost a panic, but at the time, I had been waiting so long that I was close to wetting myself on the coach, and all I could think of was to get off the coach before that happened. I suppose that in my panic at not stopping, I must have made some comment on this, because Paul, who seemed to know the area, pointed to some landmark and said we were ‘almost there.’ I was almost wetting my knickers, and certainly would if we didn’t get ‘there’ very quickly! This news also made me realise the futility of asking for an emergency toilet stop, even to use the hedge, as I would be told that as we were ‘almost there.’ I would have to wait until we were ‘there’ and there would be a proper Ladies’ for me to use. At the time I was so desperate that I would have settled for almost anywhere, just so long as I could go, and quickly. I had been hanging on, bursting, absolutely bursting, for what seemed like ages, and even sitting on my heel, I did not feel capable of waiting much longer. I wasn’t just bursting, I was Desperate, and I had to get to a Ladies’ very, very, quickly, or I was going to wet myself.
As we turned off the motorway, I was literally gritting my teeth and clenching my fists with desperation and telling myself that somehow, I simply had to wait a bit longer, as we really were ‘nearly there.’ The trouble was, I did not know where ‘there’ was except that it was an interesting and historic town. In my desperation I was certain that the coach would stop somewhere near a Ladies’; there was going to be a proper coach park for us to stop and that would have a Ladies’. I was so sure of that, and it was just about all that I could think about as we drove through the approaches to the town from the motorway. Along roads with thick hedges and places I could go behind and pee. I really was so desperate that I was close to going to the driver and asking him to stop and let me get off and pee behind a hedge. Literally nothing else mattered to me then but getting to somewhere I could pee. A Ladies’, a hedge, almost anywhere just so long as I did not wet my knickers on the coach!
After hanging on for so long on that motorway, steeling myself to be able to wait just that little bit longer until I got to the service area, I was going almost frantic, and I was terrified that I would not be able to wait much longer, maybe not long enough to get to our destination and the Ladies’ that I was so certain had to be there. This was an awful moment for me as I had had numerous experiences when younger of simply not being able to wait until I could get to a Ladies’ when this desperate and it was not beyond my experience to completely break down and wet myself in public. I must wait. I could not be the girl of 18 who wet herself on the coach outing! I could only think of one thing to do and that was to press my heel in harder between my legs and keep my pee back. If I had been alone I would have been holding myself with all my strength, but that was not something I could do on a coach. I was twisting about on the seat, trying desperately to get my foot twisted sideways so that my heel was pressing as hard as possible between my legs. I was trying to adjust my sitting position so that my full weight was on my heel, pressing it so hard between my legs that I could wait even though my bladder was about to burst. This was absolute desperation! I was doing everything I could to hold back my pee and even then I was dangerously close to wetting myself. My heel was pressing into me so hard it was hurting, and to make my misery worse, my abdomen, (bladder area) was also hurting, presumably with the pressure that was building up inside me. I had been waiting so long and this was now serious desperation, perhaps as bad as I had ever been. Certainly it was the worst situation I could ever remember, simply having to wait with no option to get to a Ladies’.
At last the coach stopped, but it wasn’t the coach park with all the facilities I had been dreaming of. All the driver did was pull up at the side of the road so we could get out near the town centre. Another shattering disappointment for me! It might not seem much to anyone reading this, but I was absolutely desperate for a Ladies’. I had been waiting for ages, sitting on my heel, trying everything I knew to help me wait, and for the last ten minutes or more I had been hanging on with all my strength, pushing down on my heel as hard as I could in a frantic struggle not to wet my pants on the coach. I was in such a state of desperation that I was beyond thinking clearly. I had been so certain that arriving would mean a Ladies’, that I had never thought any further than the coach stopping and me getting off. I had been expecting a Ladies’ to miraculously appear where we stopped. But the age of miracles had passed and instead, I was in a group, walking along a footpath, absolutely desperate for a pee, and not a sign of the Ladies’ I so very, very, desperately needed. Without the help of my heel pressing between my legs I was desperate, no worse than desperate, frantic, frantic for a pee, right at my limit, and it was taking every ounce of my strength to contain my bursting bladder. Oh God, was I desperate!! So close to wetting myself I was almost in tears. I was ‘holding on’ with all my strength and it felt as if I was right on the brink of wetting myself. The only thing I could think of was that I had, absolutely had, to find a Ladies’, very, very quickly, but I did not know where. This was the situation I had always dreaded being in– absolutely desperate for a pee and not being able to find a loo or anywhere to go.
Our group was walking into town and Paul, and others who seemed to know something about the place were talking of a historic Church we should look at. All I wanted was a Ladies’ Toilet, historic or otherwise, but I had no real option but to hobble along in the group, hoping against all hope that there would be a Ladies’ near the Church. There was a public toilet near our local church and in my desperate state I was convinced that there was always a toilet near a Church. There simply had to be one! I was so desperate I could hardly wait and all I could think about was getting into a Ladies’ and the Relief…
It was summer day and I was wearing a pale blue summer dress, with a full skirt and (I know some like the details!) under it a petticoat (underskirt) and white, stretch nylon panties, (big knickers we would call them now, but then only ‘loose’ girls wore tiny bikini knickers), stockings and a garter belt, as it was before the days of tights. With my bladder problems I had been no stranger to wetting my knickers in my younger days, and I could remember those traumatic times well enough to know that I was not far from wetting my knickers as I walked along. I was trying all I knew to wait, as I had been most of the morning, and I was almost hobbling along the street with my legs pressed together and ‘clenching myself shut’ inside as hard as I could in a frantic attempt not to wet my knickers. Since I was one of a group, all of us walking at a normal pace, there was no option for me to do anything else that might have eased the terrible pressure on my bladder. Walking on tiptoe with stiff legs or walking sideways with my legs crossed might have been some help for my poor, bursting bladder, but not the way I could walk in that group, at least not without admitting to everyone that I was nearly out of control with a desperate need for a toilet.
At last we found the Church, but to my dismay, no Ladies’, and I could not work up much interest in the flying buttresses or medieval stained glass. All I could think about was getting to a Ladies’ before I completely broke down and wet my knickers in public.
As we stood admiring the Church, Stood? I could hardly stand still I was in such a state of desperation, and it was taking every ounce of my strength to hold back my pee, even with my legs twisted together as tightly as I could. I pulled Mary aside and whispered to her “Let’s try to slip away, I must find a Ladies’, I’m bursting.”
“Yes. Good idea, I want to go as well,” replied Mary. Until then I had not given a thought to anyone else wanting to go. My problems had taken up all my attention, but I had been vaguely aware of Mary sitting with her legs crossed as we drove down the motorway. Since she was a close friend, I knew that she could wait longer than I could, (so could all my friends!) but that she wasn’t what you might call a ‘camel,’ and even though she was renowned for her shyness, she was a not infrequent toilet user. So, it was not at all unlikely that after a long coach journey in the morning that she also wanted a Ladies’, if not so desperately as I did. Making some mumbled excuse about “Going to look at the shops,” I led Mary away, and as soon as we were out of earshot of the group, I was asking her “Oh quick! Can you see a Ladies’ anywhere?”
“No, but there should be one in the town centre, down there.” Mary was hopefully indicating further along the road we were walking down, but that was too vague for me.
“Let’s ask someone, I’m bursting!, so bad I can’t wait much longer. I need to, I must, find a Ladies’ quickly.” I went straight up to a middle–aged lady walking towards us.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me the way to a Ladies’ toilet, please?”
I was so desperate, that all shyness had been forgotten. She looked a bit taken–back by my urgent question, but luckily she knew where a Ladies’ was and gave me directions.
“Down this road, turn left at the High Street and it’s on the right.” Mary was standing back as if to disassociate herself from my urgent quest for a Ladies’. She was a shy reserved girl who believed that nice, well behaved young Ladies’, such as she thought us both, did not reveal their need for a toilet to strangers. She was standing with her legs crossed more tightly than was normal and with her hands clasped across her abdomen, or, as seems relevant now, her bladder area.
Once I had some directions, I set off down the road as quickly as I could walk. Mary followed more slowly, as if she was still pretending she that she had nothing to do with me.
After a few yards, I had to stop and wait for her to catch up. “Quick, Mary, quick! The Ladies’ is this way. Come on, Quick! I can’t wait much longer!” I was unashamedly desperate, wanting to go as badly as I had ever done, and felt myself to be in serious danger of wetting my knickers unless I could get to this Ladies’ as quickly as possible. I tried to hurry ahead. I wanted to get to a loo more than anything else, and at that moment, nothing mattered as much to me as finding a loo before I wet my knickers. I was almost frantic for a pee and thought (knew) that I was not going to be able to wait much longer. I think that if I had not wanted to go so desperately I would have run down the road, but my bladder was bursting and hurting too much for me to be able to run. All I could manage was to walk as quickly as I could while keeping my legs pressed together. Even this was hardly enough and I could feel my bladder control weakening and I was very close to wetting myself. My first instinct was to hold myself between my legs, but there were too many Saturday morning shoppers about, and I had been conditioned that well–behaved young ladies did not walk down the street holding between their legs, however badly they wanted a toilet. Somehow I reached the High street, which was far more crowded, and turning left, I was horrified not to be able to see any indication of the Ladies’ I had been promised was there.
Mary joined me. “Can you see the Ladies’?” I asked her, twisting my legs together and going nearly frantic, as I could feel my last control slipping away and wetting myself became a real possibility, no worse, it was a serious probability, if not a certainty. In one last despairing effort I summoned all my ‘holding power’ and tried desperately to clench my bladder shut. But it was beyond my limited abilities; after holding on for so long, I could not wait another second. To my absolute horror, I simply could not wait any longer, and I was wetting myself! My knickers were wet, and I could feel pee trickling down my legs. It was a terrible moment for me. I was a ‘grown up’ young lady of 18, standing in a High Street crowded with Saturday morning shoppers, and starting to wet my knickers in public. I gasped with horror at what was happening and somehow managed to clench harder and stop myself. Frantic beyond anything I had ever known before, all I wanted was to get to the Ladies’ and GO!
“We must find it, Mary. I can’t wait!” I cried, but Mary, standing with her legs crossed had her own problems. Beyond caring what anyone might think of my behaviour, I virtually ran up to the first single woman I saw and begged her to tell me where the Ladies’ Toilet was. I think in my panic I had to resort to actually holding between my legs as I begged her for directions. If not, I was certainly almost tying my legs in a knot as I tried to stand still and ask her for directions. It must have been obvious that I was in desperate need of a toilet. Whatever, I guess it only served to shock her and to emphasise just how urgent my need was. She pointed down the road to the left, where I had been told the Ladies’ was, and added that it was down a small lane on the right. At last I could see the lane she was pointing to and, oh thank goodness, there was the small yellow ‘Public Conveniences’ sign. Never have I been so glad to see that sign, and hardly stopping to thank her, I was almost running down the High Street. Mary was following, but so slowly. At the entrance to the lane, I had to stop with my legs twisted, unashamedly holding myself in sheer desperation, and wait for her.
“Quick, Mary, I can’t wait, Come on! It’s down here, I can see it!” Despite holding myself, I could not bear to hang about any longer. Forgetting all about decorous behaviour, I just ran for the Ladies’. Not very fast, because I wanted to go so badly, my bladder was hurting so much, that I could hardly walk, and running while holding between my legs was not easy. I dared not move my hand away as I did not think I could wait any other way.
Mary had finally got a move on, now she could see the Ladies’ and she was not exactly running, but walking very fast with her legs straight, and two very desperate girls pushed their way into the Ladies’ together, both telling each other “Quick! Hurry!” through clenched teeth, and both with their purse in one hand, ready to get out a precious penny to get us in the cubicles.
I didn’t pay, but flung myself at a cubicle just as someone was coming out. I wasn’t trying to save money, all I wanted was to get in a cubicle as quickly as possible, and as I slammed and locked the door I was literally shaking with the effort I was making to try to hold on a few more seconds, while I pulled my skirt up and my knickers down and dropped onto the toilet.
Oh the relief, when I could finally let go! I don’t think it has ever felt so good to be able to pee as it did that morning, sitting on that toilet. Relief! I almost cried with the relief I felt, and I could have stayed there all the morning, it felt so good. Almost worth waiting for, but not quite, I never wanted to have to suffer like that again. I thought I could go on forever, but my bladder was not very big, even if it had been full to bursting point. In my panic I had almost torn my clothes off, and I had to sort out the resulting tangle as I pulled up my knickers and smoothed down my skirt. To my great shame my knickers were wet between the legs from my ‘accidents’ getting to the Ladies’, and my legs and stocking tops were wet from the same ‘leaks’ I dried them as best I could with the toilet paper provided and prayed that nothing would be noticeable when I rejoined the group. I was ashamed enough to have been the girl who had to hurry off the find the Ladies’, and I did no want to be known as the girl who wet her knickers on the outing to Kent.
Washing my hands and brushing my hair afterwards, I had to wait what seemed like an age for Mary to finish and come out of her cubicle and I was wondering what was taking her so long. When she, at last, joined me, we both looked at each other and said something like “Oh the relief!” and then laughed. But it had not been a laughing matter to me; I do not think I had ever wanted to go so badly or had to wait so long, and how I had managed to hold out while looking for the Ladies’, I would never know. Mary held her bladder area and groaned, and I could only do the same in sympathy. My bladder was aching where it had been stretched to its limit, and I assumed she was consoling me for my desperation. It is only now, as I recall that morning, that I realise that poor Mary must also have been desperate. She had been sitting on the coach, with her legs crossed, for most of the motorway, and she had trouble walking fast enough to keep up with my frantic rush to find the Ladies’. I know that she did not have an enormous bladder, just better than mine, so if she had not taken all the precautions I had that morning, (only 1 cup of tea at breakfast, use the loo 3 or 4 times before leaving home to drain out every drop from my bladder) it was likely that she had wanted to go quite badly on that journey.
Looking back on her behaviour, I think that she was absolutely bursting, when we got off the coach. Not my urgent, weak bladder need, about to wet myself that I was suffering, but a more ‘adult’ agony from a bladder stretched to its limit of capacity. The only time we ever discussed the outing was when telling our friends about it, when Mary admitted that she had been ‘dying to go’ when we arrived and was glad of an excuse to slide off and find a Ladies’. Nothing was ever said about my almost running, asking people the way, and repeated cries of “I can’t wait!” none of which was very dignified behaviour from the demure young lady that I considered myself to be. Until now I have never mentioned how desperately I wanted to go, how long I was sitting on my heel, and how urgently I needed to find the Ladies’. Nor have I ever criticised Mary for how slowly she walked to the Ladies’, and she has never suggested that it was, as I suspect, that her bladder was so full, and hurting her so much, that she simply could not hurry any more. The time she spent in the Ladies’ was confirmation that she had had a very, very, full bladder to empty. Mine might have been stretched to bursting point, but it was still only tiny, and however hard I might have tried, I could not make it hold very much. Mary, I think, had literally forced herself to hold a lot more pee, and was suffering the agony for managing to do so. Looking back, I think I would have preferred to suffer the pain she did and kept my knickers dry and been in less of a panic to find the Ladies’. As a last word on the morning’s events; walking back from the Ladies’ we met several other girls from our group, and all had the same question; “Have you found one? Where is it?”
Perhaps none were in the same state as Mary and I were, but it only showed me that, with hindsight, if only I had been more positive and asked for a stop at the Service area, I would have saved myself and a lot of others, suffering. I looked on that outing as a significant part of growing up and resolved that never again would I be shy in asking to stop at a Ladies’ if I wanted to go. It should have also taught me to be very careful of any coach outing, but it was some years, and another desperate journey before I learned this.
After such a traumatic start to the day, I was ultra–careful for the rest of the outing. Lunch in a pub gave me the chance to ‘wash my hands’ before and after, and I was careful not to drink too much. Before the return journey, I made absolutely sure I found a Ladies’ just before I got on the coach. It was a horrid, little back street toilet, but it was a toilet and that was all I needed. The journey back was far more comfortable with pleasant diversions flirting with the boys on the coach. I wanted to go when we got back, but not desperately, and Paul was kind enough to drive me home so I did not have to suffer any extremes of desperation– a far better ending to the day than the start.
Looking back, this was a significant time for me as it was the first time I was in the situation where I simply HAD to wait. No excuses of having a weak bladder, too young to have proper control, or anything. I was a grown –up in an adult situation, who was expected to be able to wait, and wait… for as long as it took to reach the Ladies’, and not a little girl dying to go, who might wet her pants in the street. The stark realisation came to me that if I wanted to be a grown–up girl and have a boyfriend, I had to behave like one and that meant waiting for a loo.
Looking back at what might have happened, I think I was incredibly lucky that day, and things could have gone a lot worse for me. For instance, it was only chance, arranged by someone else, that Paul collected me and took me to the starting point. Other wise I would have gone by bus, for that I would have left home at least 20 minutes earlier, probably more like 30 minutes, and as I noted, there were no toilets near the start for a last minute, precautionary visit. Would I have been able to survive the extra, say, 25 minutes before reaching a Ladies’? Somehow I doubt it, and I have no idea what I might have done. I would have been frantic, out of my mind, about to wet my pants, on the coach even before the service area, and I wonder if I would have even been able to hold out until then, when I would have HAD to demand a stop. Another thing I later discovered was that our destination was so nearly changed for another larger town, further away, and this would have taken another 20 minutes past our turn off the motorway. Could I have waited that long, assuming we had not stopped at the services?
It would have been a very close thing, and I might just have held on, absolutely desperate, on the brink of wetting myself. Or I might not have been able to hold out, and I dread to think of the shame I would have felt, having to ask the coach driver to stop and let me go by the side of the road; with everyone on the coach watching, and no hedge to hide behind. What would I have done?? Crouched by the back wheel and hope nobody looked out of the window, or tried to find a bush to hide behind?
My worst scenario is that I would have been too shy to ask, and would have tried to wait, which would have been beyond my abilities, so I would have started to wet my knickers before I was forced to ask for a stop. My pale blue dress would have shown, so clearly, the wet patch and everyone on that coach would have known that I had wet my pants.
The only alternative I can imagine is that, somehow, but some super–human effort, I would have managed to make myself wait for all the journey, when I would have been frantic beyond imagination or belief, when any attempt at walking to find a Ladies’ would have been far beyond me, and I think I would have probably wet myself totally in the first few steps off the coach or off my heel.
I might not have thought so at the time, but looking back this was probably one of my luckier days– to have survived so many possible nightmares with nothing worse that damp knickers and an aching bladder, was far better that could have been. And what level of agony would Mary have suffered if she had not been given a ride to the start? Or had to endure another 25 minutes on the coach. She would never, ever, have asked for an emergency, hedge, stop, but would have simply had to force herself to wait… Somehow– until her bladder burst? Poor girl, I do not want to think about this or what might have happened to me. We both survived, and that is all that matters.
By: Nicola