Pooing at work

having a poo

I can count on one hand the number of times I took a dump at work in the first 10 years of my first ever job (no pun intended), it was such an alien thing to do – I would only drop one on my own throne at home.

It’s like going for a crap at school, not a chance, my body would wait until I got home.

But as I got older things changed and over the years not only am I capable of having a poo in a public loo, I ruddy well enjoy it.

Maybe enjoy isn’t the right word, nobody “enjoys” a poo, as such…  Scatman John, maybe.

But I’ve gone from “No, it’s OK, I’ll wait until I get home, in 6 hours” to “Right pal, first things first, where’s yer shitter?”, whilst rolling up my sleeves.

Going for a poo at work though is something of an art form.

You’re looking to park your lunch so you pop into the toilets.  Two cubicles, one’s free. Magic.

You go in and sit down. 

As you park your bum you notice the seat is warm.  You shudder, someone’s just been before you.


The person next to you is completely silent, they’re not even moving about on the seat in case it makes a noise.

You know you need to drop your load, you’re not there for the good of your health and you left your Gameboy on your desk.

Both parties silent.  You realise the person next to you hasn’t “been” yet either.

You’re engaged in a “Poo Stand Off”.

Neither of you wants to go first in case it’s a noisy one and you hear each other fart or heaven forbid, have a shit.  Even though you’re in a toilet, the place for such activity.

Neither of you know who the other person is.  Unless there’s only 2 of you in the company or 2 of the same gender, then you’re fucked.

Your sphincter is twitching, you need to go.  You can feel the tension from the next cubicle coming through the wall as well, who’s going to break first?




Next door farts.  You stick your fist in your mouth to stifle a giggle.  Yes, farts are still funny, even at 42.

The tension breaks, you feel a sense of empathy with your toilet buddy so you push and a trump comes out that sounds like a cat playing a Jews Harp.  You stifle a giggle again.

You decide that you’re ready to go now, so you push and deliver a healthy brown baby – there’s been a bit of noise about it, but there’s no tearing, everything’s fine, no stitches required.

By this time, next door has managed to stealthily drop a log, timing their pushes to when you’re making a noise pulling the toilet paper and wiping your arse.

You’re finished.  Their final push up Hamturder Hill comes when you flush the toilet, you’ve not heard a thing but they’ve heard you fart and shit.  They’ve even heard your nipsy wink.

But you’ve got away with it, they’re not going to come out the toilet whilst you’re still there.

That would be awkward.  So your anonymity is preserved, you’re winning.

You wash your hands, they flush and they’re waiting by the cubicle door, hiding – waiting for you to leave.

You’ve aced this.  Your toilet buddy has no idea who you are.

It’s all silent in the toilets, you open the door to walk out, there’s someone on the other side coming in….

Alright, Maj?”, they say loudly.


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