The Longest Wee in History

Date: 6/25/2026

I try to avoid public toilets like the plague. Too many inconsistencies. Too many surprises. There’s usually a lack of toilet paper, for one. Or worse, there’s plenty of toilet paper, but it’s soaked for reasons nobody dares investigate. There are often traces of someone else’s lunch decorating the porcelain. Suspicious puddles on the floor. Smells so powerful they don’t merely enter your nostrils — they pull up a chair and settle in for the long haul. The list is endless. But when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. Eventually, dignity packs its bags and expectations lower themselves into a shallow grave. So here I am. Not the nicest public toilet I’ve ever had the misfortune of visiting, but equally I’ve seen worse. Nobody appears to have set fire to this one recently, which already puts it comfortably above average. And it has a working lock. Or so I think. The moment my arse hugs the seat, Kylie materialises from seemingly nowhere. Oh dear. Another fear of mine. Stage fright. Not the standing-on-a-stage variety. The much less glamorous inability to urinate when another human being is occupying the same postcode. And not just any human being. Kylie. A woman I haven’t spoken to in three and a half years. The atmosphere instantly turns glacial. I can almost feel frost gathering on the cubicle walls. Which is particularly impressive considering it’s approximately thirty-four sodding degrees outside. “Oh, don’t let me stop you,” she says casually. She’s leaning against the cubicle door with a washing basket tucked under one arm. Of course she is. Funny how washing baskets appear everywhere in dreams. You can be escaping a tsunami, fighting dragons, negotiating peace in the Middle East… And somewhere nearby, completely unbothered by events, there’ll be a washing basket quietly minding its own business. Or perhaps my life has become so aggressively middle-aged that even my dreams now come with a modest but unavoidable domestic workload. I sit there. Nothing happens. Not so much as a dribble. You see, this is an issue. I can’t wee in front of people. I seize up completely. Like a clam. Like the world’s most determined cork. My wee simply sits there, stagnant in my bladder. Refusing to participate. It’s one of those strange psychological things. I haven’t once urinated in front of my husband and we’ve been together for twenty-one years. We’ve shared a mortgage, children, illnesses, grief, holidays, and approximately seven thousand conversations about what’s for dinner. Yet somehow this remains where I draw the line. “I’m not waiting all day,” Kylie sighs dramatically. “I can’t go with you standing there.” Kylie turns around to face the door. “You’re still present.” “Fine,” she mutters. “But do hurry.” She lets herself out. The door clicks shut. Silence. Blessed silence. The sort of silence usually only experienced by monks, deep-sea divers, and parents who’ve successfully locked themselves in a bathroom for five uninterrupted minutes. At last. Finally. I can release the golden showers. Well… Not those golden showers. Let’s not accidentally wander into an entirely different category of dream. I relax. My shoulders loosen. My bladder cautiously emerges from hiding. The moment arrives. And then — Tap. Tap. Tap. “Mandy?” Oh, for the love of Christ. My husband. Outside the cubicle. “Fancy a quickie?” Sweet mother of God. I’m desperate for a piss. Do I look like I want a shag? “Maybe later!” I yell. A phrase so familiar it leaves my mouth with the ease of birdsong. “Okay,” he replies. A pause. “But hurry up. My balls are so heavy I feel like they’re about to eject themselves from their bags.” I close my eyes. What a truly horrific image. One that can never be unheard. “Can you piss off now?” “I’m gone!” he shouts. Finally. Peace and bloody quiet. The stars align. My bladder prepares to fulfil its destiny. And then — A head appears over the top of the cubicle. Phoebe. Naturally. Because apparently the entire family has decided to hold a meeting in the one place I’ve specifically chosen to avoid people. “Mum.” “Oh, for—” “Have you been actively avoiding me?” I stare at her. My eye twitches. “No. I’ve been actively trying to release my bladder before it explodes.” “Because I feel like you’ve been ignoring me.” “I haven’t, Phoebe.” “You never have time for me.” And there it is. The guilt. Swift. Precise. Brutal. The kind only children can summon. The sort that bypasses logic entirely and heads straight for the soul. “I’ve just been… a little preoccupied.” “You aren’t exactly present in my life.” I gesture wildly around the cubicle. “You’re practically inside the same toilet cubicle as me.” I smile. She doesn’t. Uh oh. This is serious. I recognise that expression. The one that means we’re about to have a deep and meaningful conversation. The sort of conversation I really don’t want to have while my bladder is at war with my brain. “Can we chat about this later?” I ask gently. “Preferably when I’m not trying to urinate?” She studies me for a moment. Then nods solemnly. And disappears. At bloody last. My poor bladder is about to pack up and leave me for good. I take a deep breath. Relax. The muscles unclench. The pressure eases. Civilisation returns. And finally… I let go. Dear God. It feels glorious. Not good. Not nice. Glorious. The sort of relief monks probably spend decades seeking. The world softens. My shoulders drop. Every muscle in my body uncurls like a fern. The angels sing. For two beautiful minutes, nothing else exists. Then another thought enters my head. What if it never stops? What if this is my life now? What if I spend eternity trapped inside this cubicle becoming a human water feature? Thankfully, it does stop. I wipe. Wash my hands. And rejoin society. Only society seems to have undergone some significant changes while I was away. It now consists primarily of rowdy adults dressed as children, running around a fairground and throwing balls at one another. Nobody seems remotely concerned by this. Within seconds I’m participating in a game of dodgeball I don’t remember consenting to. A ball whistles past my ear. Another narrowly misses my face. Duck. Dive. Duck. Dive. Survival instincts kick in surprisingly quickly. Until eventually I stumble into a ball-free zone. Well. Not completely ball-free. Conspiracy Kev is standing there with his arms folded and his face doing that familiar over-excited thing it does whenever he’s about to drop a C-bomb. Not that C-bomb. A conspiracy bomb. The sort that usually begins with: “Now, I’m not saying the moon is fake…” before proceeding to suggest exactly that. “Hey Kev,” I wave. “Fancy seeing you here.” “Wanna go on a ride?” Straight to it. No hello. No context. No warm-up conversation. Just ride. “Sure. Why not?” The famous last words of many unfortunate people. We join the queue for a rollercoaster that looks less like a ride and more like a near-death experience with a ticket booth. The track is rusty. The supports lean slightly. One section appears to be held together by several metres of duct tape. “Jesus,” I say, eyeing it nervously. “Are you sure about this?” “Never been surer, Mand.” Which is exactly the sort of thing people say moments before disaster. Eventually it’s our turn. We climb aboard. The safety bar locks into place with all the confidence of a reluctant handshake. The ride begins. Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack. Ping. Clackety-clack. Rattle. Groan. Clackety-clack. BANG. Absolutely not. “I want to get off!” “Too late for that, Mand! Hold on tight!” The rollercoaster launches forward. The world becomes wind, screaming and regret. Pure, concentrated terror. The kind that strips away all pretence and leaves you bargaining with a God you haven’t spoken to in years. I become the most religious woman in Somerset for approximately forty-seven seconds. My entire life flashes before my eyes. Disappointing. Truly disappointing. Not because my life has been bad. More because my subconscious has apparently selected the highlights reel. Three decades of existence and somehow it’s chosen things like waving back at strangers who weren’t waving at me, forgetting people’s names immediately after they’ve told me, and that time I got trapped in a public toilet. Apparently social awkwardness and urinary difficulties are the defining moments of my existence. By some miracle we survive. Kev immediately bends over and moderately empties his stomach into an innocent bush. Poor bush. It’s seen more vomit than any bush should ever have to see. Kev wipes his mouth. Straightens up. Eyes shining. “I’ve never felt more alive.” Really? Because five minutes ago he was screaming like a baby being launched from a trebuchet. “I’ll give you a lift home.” Against all logic, I agree. The car journey is somehow worse. Much worse. Kev drives like a man actively fleeing consequences. His eyes are wild. His grin is unsettling. The speedometer keeps climbing. Ninety. Ninety-five. Possibly more. I’ve lost the will to check. “Jesus Christ, Kev!” I yell. “Slow it down!” “Live a little!” he laughs. Then somehow drives even faster. I’m getting PTSD from the rollercoaster. Finally he slams on the brakes. The car comes to a stop. Only then do I realise how hard I’ve been holding on for dear life. I’m fairly certain I’ve left fingerprints in the upholstery. “You’re a maniac.” “Lost the plot years ago, Mand.” And with that, he speeds off down the road. I look around. This isn’t my house. It’s a quaint bungalow with a pebbled drive and crisscross windows. Completely unfamiliar. Yet strangely familiar too. Like a memory I can almost reach but not quite touch. Mat is standing outside smiling. Ah. Apparently he hasn’t forgotten about the quickie. “Hey love,” I say. “What the bloody hell are we doing here?” “We can call a cab from here.” I reach into my bag for my phone. Nothing. I search again. Still nothing. “I don’t have my phone.” “The phone’s in there.” He points towards the porch. We walk over. Open the door. And there it is. An ancient telephone. Chunky. Heavy. A circular dial. A slot in the top for coins. Actual coins. “Haven’t seen one of these in years,” I laugh. Mat looks confused. As though it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. He empties a handful of coppers into the slot and places the receiver against my ear. Static. Crackling. White noise. Then — Pssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhh. My stomach drops. I know that sound. Instantly. Pssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhh. The sound grows louder. Suddenly everything clicks. The fairground. The dodgeball. The rollercoaster. Kev. The bungalow. The phone. None of it happened. I never left the toilet cubicle. I never left at all. I’m still sitting there. Still weeing. Still trapped inside what can only be described as the longest piss in human history. Beyond the cubicle door I hear a chorus of familiar voices. “Hurry up, love.” “I’m not waiting all day.” “Why aren’t you talking to me, Mum?” “Mandy, my balls are about to deport themselves!” The voices overlap. Blend together. Layer upon layer. Need something. Want something. Demand something. Growing louder. Growing stranger. Until they’re no longer individual voices at all. Just noise. Expectation. Responsibility. And all the while — Pssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhh. The stream continues. Endless. Relentless. Like a tiny yellow Niagara Falls. And somewhere, deep within the strange logic of the dream, I finally understand. The dream was never really about the toilet. It was about everybody wanting a piece of me at the exact moment I was trying to find five minutes alone. Everybody needing something. Everybody waiting. Everybody talking. Everybody standing just outside the door. And me, desperately trying to complete one simple task before the next interruption arrived. Trying to carve out five quiet minutes in a life that rarely stops knocking. The only problem is… Even in my own dream — Nobody lets me finish in peace.