Heavenly Beverley : Women's Waterworx Woes...

Let's face it, girls. Whether the Almighty or some other git designed women's Private Parts, they did a bloody awful job. Michael has always expressed disbelief at the flawed notion of a sewerage farm next to a recreational area...his words, not mine!

For the Beverley Hillbillies, we have spent the last month or so dealing with far too much waterworx within the confines of Station House. However, as a result of some expensive vet consultations and lateral thinking, most of the pet-related widdling has been solved.

Pip, a canine bloke, had not been blameless in this growing sea of wee. A serial repeat offender as a Nervous Nelly his entire life, Pip's anxiety has been the cause of startled piddling due to a fearsome leaf drifting past, a scary sign rattling in the wind or insecurity with doggy companions visiting the house.

We were concerned that the occasional puddle was turning into the filling of Lake Eyre, so appropriate investigations began with our team at Northam Vet. We'd endured the fiasco of Madame Cat having a urinary tract infection minus any trace of bacteria, so we had a lurking fear that this could be the cause of Pip's incontinence troubles.

Pip is now the proud wearer of a pheromone collar (LOL). This device is supposed to secrete the same hormones as his Mummy did a very long time ago. He immediately turned into a Most Relaxed Jack Russell, but the passing of water was continuing on our floors. And then we caught the Beagle red-pawed, engaging in some involuntary peeing of her own.

The truth was out there! The Problem Child had a bladder infection. Back to the vet. A month's (!) worth of antibiotics later and we finally are being given a break from all that liquid.

On the same day as I ventured to Northam for the vet, I had an emergency appointment with Richard, one of our fabulous GPs. After a number of years, I'd developed those telltale signs of extreme urgency (GET OUT OF MY WAY...I NEED TO PEE!) followed by the apparent passing of a few drips masquerading as razor blades. Enough to bring tears to my eyes.

Richard put me on a course of antibiotics. Just like the Beagle...I returned for the results of the infection last Wednesday. The diagnosis was the common E.Coli bug that had been transported from my back passage to my very front passage. Immediately outraged and embarrassed by this turn of events, Richard assured me that there was nothing wrong with my hygiene. "Just happens" he shrugged.

Lastly, I have been reminded of that ongoing awkward issue facing all girls who are required to produce a specimen from time to time. The current state of affairs involving a plastic jar, fingers, ability (or lack of it) to turn one's pelvic floor on and off and the unfriendly environment of a surgery loo is just not cricket.

Where do you put the bloody lid from the jar after you unscrew it? Or struggle with preventing your fingers from being splashed? How are you supposed to navigate the intricacies of a mid-stream when you can't see what you're doing? And what the fuck do you do with the sample of warm widdle whilst you're trying to wash your hands and the outside of the jar so nobody will guess you have peed on your fingers? Then, as a final insult, you have to screw on the lid of the jar without any leakage.

Ladies, we need to revolt. All doctors' loos should be equipped with suitable piddling stations. Somewhere to place the jar. A see-through throne on which to sit. The hand basin within reach. A larger container with an enormous opening might just do the trick for me.

I rest my case. I am open to further suggestions. As long as our anatomy remains in this problematic arrangement, we need to look at alternatives for comfort and dignity whilst dealing with this nasty reality.

Piddling problems for Her Majesty...