That is not the story, that is the front cover of the newspaper. I have put the story here though. Here it is. This next bit.
Stay in Bed until someone tells you it's alright to get up.
My Dad was doing a play for a few months in New York once, and Mum stayed at home with my sisters and I. When summer came and school finished, the producer of the show invited Mum and us over to spend the summer in her house in the Berkshire Mountains so we could hang out with my Dad. I was nine and Hannah was six. Martha was four months.
The producer’s name was Anita (pronounced Uh-neeeet-eh) and she was an authentic ‘original-art-works, penthouse-in-New York, second-home-in-Aspen’ kind of rich person. A converted barn in the grounds of the house comfortably housed the Cook, the Nanny and the Nanny’s own two kids. The Housekeeper and the Gardener lived off-site. There were also two huge Doberman dogs that did the most enormous poos all over the house. The sheer size of the house meant the poos were often left to fester for a while before they were discovered.
One morning Hannah and I woke up early and snuck downstairs, deciding that it made sense to make use of the unlimited access to every TV channel in existence, compared to the mere five we had at home, (we didn’t have RTE at this stage). As we walked bleary-eyed through one of the many atriums leading to the TV room, we encountered a magnificent Persian rug, now festooned with two enormous steaming Doberman poos. Being nine and six, this was utterly hilarious. We hopped on the spot with our legs crossed for a minute, trying to laugh quietly and not wee in our pyjamas.
Once we had sufficiently recovered enough to walk, we staggered off past the carnage to find the television room. We forgot about the poos amidst the sheer excitement of gorging our young minds on some crap TV. Obviously it goes without saying that as the eldest, I was in charge of the controller.
Our parents had some crazy idea that it was rude to be up wandering around someone else’s house before the host themselves was awake, so after we had fulfilled an hour or so of our morning Disney channel quota, we thought it best to go back to bed for a while until everyone else was up and about.
Off we pottered the way we’d come. I don’t understand exactly how it happened; I suppose we were silently wishing we had Sky TV, demanding the bulk of our attention. I stepped into something warm and wet, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘no, it can’t be,’ but it was, it was a poo. I stepped in the poo in my bare feet. It squished up through my toes in a manner not unlike playdough going through the spaghetti maker: slow at first, and then once it had a plane upon which to travel, it all came rushing through at once and my foot was completely engulfed in the stickiest, most largest poo I have ever seen.
I looked at Hannah, completely freaked out, and realised that at the exact same moment (probably because of psychic sister powers) she had stepped in the other poo. I stared at her in utter disbelief and said “I stepped in the poo,” and then Hannah, looking like how I felt, said, “Me too.” Then we started laughing, uncontrollably, horrified and delighted, accidentally dancing the poo into the carpet as we tried not to wee ourselves, again. It was not an enjoyable experience as such, but it was certainly an interesting, completely unfamiliar sensation, which can’t be all bad to a nine or six year old.
Figuring we should try to clean our feet we slipped as quietly as we could up the back stairs, (trying to walk on our heels, but not really doing a very good job, since large clumps of poo had attached themselves to the ends of our pyjama bottoms,) and into the first bathroom we found. We proceeded to stretch our legs into the sink from a standing position, in order to wash our feet with cold water and Matey bubble bath. Maybe because of all the flailing, (or perhaps the lack of hot water), but instead of washing away the poo was spreading, suddenly it was everywhere, - up our legs, in our hair, on the walls, there was just so much of it, and there was someone coming.
My Father walked into the bathroom in time to see us both trying to contort our legs out of the sink as if there was nothing wrong, by this stage, completely soaked and covered in shit. After seeming to suffer a minor heart attack, he lifted us up, and dunked us straight in the bath, pyjamas and all, and hosed us down with the showerhead. He was so angry. He went off to clean the stairs and then came back and hosed us down some more, screaming that he was going to tell people this story forever, even at our weddings. Which made us cry.