When Cinny was a little tot
She used to wee wee quite a lot
But now she’s getting old and grey
She only wee wee’s once a day.
That was written by my dad in my autograph book when I was thirteen. It’s quite sad that autograph books have disappeared, in my youth they were all the rage. Anyway, the ditty is a lie and would take my father to task, but he’s up with the angels; no doubt making up shocking lies to tell them too.
No, now that I’m getting old and grey, I have to wee wee a hell of a lot more often and I tend to give very careful consideration to where I shop, eat and meet. Rosebank, for instance, is extremely tricky. If I choose Cranks (the décor is nicely pornographic) the lavatories are a 25 minute walk away and my food is cold when I get back to my table, by which time the old bladder is showing its age again. There is a nice coffee shop adjacent to Exclusive Books, which is right next to a toilet; but that raises a whole new set of worries: the restroom is unisex (Men at the urinals!) and in order to get my drink I have to get my head around all the new terms the bored people in New York have invented for coffee-with-milk.
The most dangerous aspect to the Older Bladder Syndrome is Driving In Johannesburg. I set off with something calming (Miles Davis is always a good bet) and I don’t have too much of a problem for about twenty minutes. Then I hit William Nicol Drive and the panic strikes. I am wedged into the middle lane, between angry executives in Jaguars and Sandringham dwelling, bored women driving recreational four-wheel-drive vehicles meant for rocky terrain in Scotland. Nobody is going to let me slip into the left lane to allow me to exit at the next fuel station forecourt, but if they did a drug-crazed driver of Toyota Hi-Ace would crash into me in the emergency lane.
I think I will write to the gentleman at Hyundai and suggest that they invent a little in-seat-device to address the matter. They would most certainly corner a good market segment and the advertising people could have a real party with the copywriting. They may even consider an exciting joint-brand campaign with the manufacturers of Incontinence Pants!
Before I go I’d like to give the Sandringham ladies a little hint: Hummers in suburbia are just plain silly. If your husband has given you one, you may want to examine his reasons: it is quite likely that he feels guilty about taking that girl from the typing pool out to lunch so often.