As was described to me today over the phone while I pored over the administrative crap that seems to dominate my job at the moment, a bear shat. She let rip. An explosion in a sewerage processing plant. A world of choc for mum and bear to share.
She'd been funny for a day or so, eating too little, not sleeping enough at times, not pooing enough, several times in a row. We worried; could she be sick? Is it something we did? Something mum ate? Something dad fed to mum? Is it bird flu? The bubonic plague?
But I didn't think she was ill. Although she was more pensive (or something looking like 'pensive', perhaps pent-up's more like it) than usual this morning, during my daily 5 minutes of lap time before I am wrenched from my loved ones by the irresistible pull of 8.30 Epping line, she seemed alert, her skin and eyes seemed fine, she still spoke... adwu... argool.... ewou...
And it would seemed her message was simple: stand back, I got something brewing. The explosion got past her nappy, past her legs, onto beloved, beloved's clothes, furniture. Her bowels announced their arrival in the world of serious movement. And we were proud.
What a good little Bear!
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