In the pub last night, I happened to be leaning against the bar next to someone who drinks there regularly enough for me to recognise him, but to whom I have never been introduced. At least, I don’t think so. Without any introductions, he said, “Did you read that Charlie Brooker article?” This could have meant nothing to me, but as I stubbornly persist in reading through the Guardian to find something that’s not about celebrities or Ian McEwan or motherhood, I did know what he meant. (This.)
I said yes, I had read it.
He said, “It’s spot on. No-one talks about urinals.”
I agreed that they were a mystery and that solving their mystery is On My List, along with everything else that anyone says to me about my book topic.
He said, then, “I don’t know about anyone else, but I NEVER pee standing up. I always sit.”
So this is what writing a book about shit does to my social interaction. Strangers tell me, unprompted, how they release their bodily fluids. It’s odd, but I’m getting used to it.
Happy birthday, 
Rhodri.