Dirty Monkey

 

Church Aston, Newport, Shropshire 1970-71

 

 

Poo. An unmentionable subject. So unmentionable in fact, that I – Jay Cool – feel compelled to devote an entire blog post to it. The forbidden fruit. What could tempt me more? I could start with a tiny baby’s dribble, a small outflow of Carnation’s evaporated milk – nothing more than a wet fart. But I’d rather begin with a hefty one – a dump –  a toddler dump – a Dirty Monkey!

 

Barbary Ape (Pixabay image)

 

“I’ve done one, Mum!” my brother, Simon, shouted. “It’s in the potty!”

 

“Ooh, you Dirty Monkey!” derided our mum. “It’s a messy one. Let’s get that bottom cleaned up!”

 

 

Big Brother, forever cooperative, pointed his snout downwards, did a head-dive into the carpet, and, whilst foraging, obligingly stuck his bottom up into the air, whilst our mum tackled the stinky brown sludge with a mass of toilet paper.

 

“It’s not going to do the job,” she concluded. “Wait there; I’ll get a wet flannel.”

 

Eventually, with a lot of dilution, the sludge transformed into dirty-pond water, and my brother’s bottom began to resemble something relating to the underside of the human anatomy. I swore to myself, that when I was old enough to use the potty, I would wipe my own bum clean – it would be more dignified – and I could avoid having a carpet-burnt nose looking for all the world like a strawberry.

 

And, so began the life of the Dirty Monkey. Not yet one-year old (Yes, I was a very advanced baby with thought processes well beyond my months!) and, even then, having a somewhat-warped imagination, I came to believe that my mum had been scolding the actual deposit, rather than my messy-in-common-with-all-toddlers brother. And, henceforward, what others may know better as a poo, became known to my mind as a Dirty Monkey.

 

Spot the frogs!

And so, ends the tale of how our three-bed-new-build semi, in a very respectable suburb of Newport, known as Church Aston, became associated with the birth of the Dirty Monkey, a burnt nose and an off-white-getting-on-for-a-shade-of-chocolate-brown-wet flannel!

 

Copyright of all text and the ‘Spot the frog!’ image owned by Jay Cool, August 2017

Who is Jay Cool

 

(1)It’s okay – it was under my breath – and what emerged from the lump with something resembling a head and four limbs, imprisoned in the baby bouncer, was interpreted by the only living things who were listening (a bunch of flies tangled up in the spider’s nest above the lump) as a mere gurgle! Realising that the lump did not have the muscle coordination skills to match its mental capacity, the flies gave all hope of a last-minute rescue and resigned themselves to their fate.

 

A chocolate frog?
(2) My dad does, however, inform me that Church Aston was, not only home to the brown flannel, but also to phenomenal numbers of frogs. Seems that my parents had to pussy foot around their visitors, which made them the real founders of the cross-the-road-without killing-the-frog computer game, the one that some of us mid-life oldies have installed as a free feature on our ancient-no-internet-access mobile phones. So glad that my early independent streak was limited to methods of bum wiping, rather than walking.
 
 
Images: The animal photos are ‘creative commons’ licensed images courtesy of Pixabay.com.

Copyright of the ‘Spot the frogs!’ image owned by Jay Cool.
 

 

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