There are so many levels on which I shouldn’t be telling you this story. But here goes anyway.
Yesterday, DH and I and the children were at a Christmas party at our friends’ house in Emirates Hills. For those of you who don’t know Emirates Hills, it’s a bit like Beverly Hills: Huge, gated mansions in an exclusive community wrapped around the deliciously green Montgomerie Golf Course.
The party, of course, was spectacular. Fully five-star catered, there was also a bar with free-flowing pink champagne, a shawarma stand, scones with clotted cream and jam, and canapés. For the children, there was an arts and crafts corner, party entertainers, a lifeguard for the pool and a full kiddie buffet with a chocolate fountain and a French chef on hand to help the little ones ice and decorate their own cupcakes. Our friends, they don’t do things by halves.
So, we sipped our pink champagne in the sunshine, drank in the heavenly surroundings and unwound to the sounds of mellow jazz. It was heaven on a stick.
And then I noticed DS clutching onto the back of a tiny chair and turning red in the face.
“Do you need a pooh?” I asked him. His panicky eyes said it all. We’re potty-training at the moment so this was quite an emergency. But the pooh, I suspected, had already passed the point of no return.
A peep down the back of his pants confirmed my worst fears. I saw a lurker.
“Come on,” I said quietly. “Not a problem, darling. Let’s get you to the bathroom and clean you up.”
So off we walked, him stepping somewhat gingerly through the bar, down the corridor and into the first bathroom we came across. I pulled DS’s trousers down, then his pants, but I couldn’t find the pooh. Must be in his trouser leg, I thought, wincing. I cleaned his bum, picked up his trousers and shook them over the loo.
Oh my. That feeling of your heart dropping through your stomach? I was there. How many elegant guests sipping champagne outside and… and what? Sipping champagne and stepping into DS’s pooh? Uh.
We retraced our steps and, when we got to the bar, I saw it. Lying there on the slate floor like a giant, festering slug. The elephant in the room. As my jaw dropped in horror, DH approached from outside, a cheery Christmas napkin in his hand.
“Don’t worry, darling. I got all the bits outside,” he said, passing me the pooey napkin. “No-one trod in it.”
Let’s just say: Me, hands and knees, baby wipes, swift exit.
We may not be invited next year.