JUST BEHIND THE U-BEND
It was a hot, summers day, and most of the Lister family, plus quite a few friends, were gathered in the small living room.
Six year old David was quite enjoying it. Three times that day he had got presents in some form or another. Just a bit more and he'd have a full Lego set.
"Where's Dad?" he'd said to an aunt.
"He's... he's dead, dear." she had said, tears welling up in her eyes, and walking away.
David had decided that didn't mean much to him, and so consulted his grandmother.
"Where's Dad gone?" he said to her.
David's grandmother was stumped. This was her adoptive grandson's first experience of death. What should she say?
Suddenly she realised it wasn't the first. Six months ago, David's pet goldfish, Bubble, had died after overfeeding.
"He's very happy now. He's gone to the same place Bubble did." she said.
David was confused. How could his dad be happy if he'd been flushed down the loo?
It had to be quite boring, and wet down there. Was anyone feeding him?
A few days later, David went to find out how he was feeling.
"Dad?"
The toilet bubbled slightly.
"What's it like in there?"
His dad didn't answer for a few seconds, then the toilet groaned. David nodded. "Are you hungry?"
The toilet bubbled again, so David went to get some food. He returned with a packet of ham, flushing it down one slice at a time.
Over the next few weeks, David made sure his dad was as happy as he could be in the U-bend, flushing down food and beer, and sometimes the odd magazine to stop him getting too bored.
One day he came home, happy because Liverpool had won an important match against Arsenal. He burst into the bathroom to tell his dad the good news.
"Hi, Dad." David said, his face about two centimetres from the water in the loo, "Guess what? We won! Liverpool 3, Arsenal 1. Now if we win the next match against Chelsea, we win the FA..."
David was cut off by bony fingers pulling his head out of the loo.
"David, what in Gods name are you doing?"
"Telling Dad the football scores." David said, as if it were obvious.
"Down the loo?"
"Well, of course down the loo! That's where he is, isn't he?"
David's grandmother shook her head in disbelief. The child was obviously delusional with grief over his father's death.
"David, darling, your dad isn't down the toilet."
"He isn't?"
"No. Your dad.. He's gone to Heaven, with Jesus Christ."
"But you said he got flushed down the bog!" said David, who now genuinely believed his grandmother had said exactly that. His grandmother nodded, smiling as you would to someone who was mad or stupid. She left the bathroom, and looked up "child psychiatrists" in the Yellow pages.
It was a hot, summers day, and most of the Lister family, plus quite a few friends, were gathered in the small living room.
Six year old David was quite enjoying it. Three times that day he had got presents in some form or another. Just a bit more and he'd have a full Lego set.
"Where's Dad?" he'd said to an aunt.
"He's... he's dead, dear." she had said, tears welling up in her eyes, and walking away.
David had decided that didn't mean much to him, and so consulted his grandmother.
"Where's Dad gone?" he said to her.
David's grandmother was stumped. This was her adoptive grandson's first experience of death. What should she say?
Suddenly she realised it wasn't the first. Six months ago, David's pet goldfish, Bubble, had died after overfeeding.
"He's very happy now. He's gone to the same place Bubble did." she said.
David was confused. How could his dad be happy if he'd been flushed down the loo?
It had to be quite boring, and wet down there. Was anyone feeding him?
A few days later, David went to find out how he was feeling.
"Dad?"
The toilet bubbled slightly.
"What's it like in there?"
His dad didn't answer for a few seconds, then the toilet groaned. David nodded. "Are you hungry?"
The toilet bubbled again, so David went to get some food. He returned with a packet of ham, flushing it down one slice at a time.
Over the next few weeks, David made sure his dad was as happy as he could be in the U-bend, flushing down food and beer, and sometimes the odd magazine to stop him getting too bored.
One day he came home, happy because Liverpool had won an important match against Arsenal. He burst into the bathroom to tell his dad the good news.
"Hi, Dad." David said, his face about two centimetres from the water in the loo, "Guess what? We won! Liverpool 3, Arsenal 1. Now if we win the next match against Chelsea, we win the FA..."
David was cut off by bony fingers pulling his head out of the loo.
"David, what in Gods name are you doing?"
"Telling Dad the football scores." David said, as if it were obvious.
"Down the loo?"
"Well, of course down the loo! That's where he is, isn't he?"
David's grandmother shook her head in disbelief. The child was obviously delusional with grief over his father's death.
"David, darling, your dad isn't down the toilet."
"He isn't?"
"No. Your dad.. He's gone to Heaven, with Jesus Christ."
"But you said he got flushed down the bog!" said David, who now genuinely believed his grandmother had said exactly that. His grandmother nodded, smiling as you would to someone who was mad or stupid. She left the bathroom, and looked up "child psychiatrists" in the Yellow pages.