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Much to the amusement of my son I sent someone some of my poo in the post today. I even let Ernie post it in the post box which he was delighted about.
I was posting it to the NHS and they had asked me do it, not for any worrying reason, just because they're asking all men over a certain age to send them poo. Presumably to test it to make sure there's nothing wrong, but if the NHS want to have fun with loads of tiny bits of old men's poo then I don't begrudge them that. I will send them anything they want.
In fact if you want to receive huge amounts of old men's poo in the post then it would be really easy. Just make up an official looking letter (you'll probably need to pretend to be the NHS or something like that) and poo collecting kit and have a return envelope with your address on it and the trusting old men will happily shit in a bag as I did this morning and then send you any amount of it that you wish.
The letter I had from the "NHS" only asked for a really tiny bit. And that's probably a good idea if you're trying to cover your tracks as it looks more legit than just asking for a shoebox full of the stuff. Though why not go for broke? I just trusted that the NHS were the ones asking me for my poo and sent it off without even googling the address to check it was legit. If they'd asked for the full bag I would have sent it to them.
So what I am saying is that if you're into receiving the fecal matter of old men in the post then there is an endless supply available to you. The beauty of it is that when those old men die and are no longer able to poop any more, some young men will have become old men and you can keep on receiving shit for as long as you live (and are able to afford the postage costs).
Ernie, who has always been a bit afraid to be on his own, even in the house, has suddenly become adventurous. On the dog walk when we gleefully posted poo (He even held up the envelope to some random passersby and shouted "There's poop in here!) we went down into a wooded area of town. As we prepared to turn back home Ernie declared that he was going to go on ahead of me and would meet me at the post box and off he rushed. It's only a matter of days since I'd been writing about over protective we are of our kids and how we should give them freedom. But even though Ernie was only out of my sight for three minutes I found this whole escapade terrifying. He had to cross a car park and Hitchin is probably teeming with paedophiles, who like to lurk in wooded areas. So I was pleased to see him waiting at the post box as he'd promised. He told me he had thought about just going home, so that would have made for a scary few minutes.
Later he wanted to go to the shop by himself. It's literally round the corner and there's no roads to cross, so I let him do it, but secretly followed him. I hid round the corner and saw him leaving the shop waving happily at the shopkeeper, having bought two packs of Oreos, looking very proud of himself and then I ran back home so he wouldn't know that I hadn't trusted him.
I had trusted him. But I don't trust the many Hitchin paedophiles and nor should I. They are very bad people and notorious liars. And that's not the worst thing about them.
It's weird to feel pride and fear simultaneously. It's sometimes annoying that Ernie needs someone to come upstairs with him to get his socks (or whatever) but I guess I will miss that when he's properly independent.
He gets it all from me too. I was a very nervous child. For a long time I had to run away after I'd flushed the toilet because I thought the noise was a monster coming to get me. I only believed this until I was 28 years old though. I still run away just in case though. You can't be too careful.
