Sally - Part 9. WHO NEEDS A PSYCHIATRIST ?

Try and keep up with me! This is now really Sally..............

Not that my father didn't play his part in my complete weediness. I was so nervous that if he even looked at me I would wet myself and cry, right up to leaving home at eighteen. If he spoke to me, which he rarely did, let alone look at me disapprovingly,  I would wet myself and as the third of five sons each born a returning-ambulance-from the-maternity-hospital-ride-apart, I was basically anonymous and unnoticed until I discovered this way to attract attention to myself.

Not surprisingly the family name for me became "Waterworks".

ME WITH THE FACE ONLY A MOTHER COULD LOVE BUT DIDN'T ! OK! OK! I'M JUST GOING FOR SOME SYMPATHY!

 I must have done things that required admonishment but as I was able to be put on a rug from which I never moved until I was four doing nothing more offensive than looking as squarely ugly as my ancient Aunt Mary, I can't imagine what my crimes could have been.

My mother, the good cop and knowing that my father was about to have words with me, would urge me to go for "A wetty".

 What a word! What an expression! One which I naturally refused to use after the age of sixteen. My fellow pupils all went for a "slash" or the braver ones a"piss" but I went for a "wetty"!

If I sensed trouble and heard him aqpproaching and before wetting myself , I'd wet myself! And still as a man, any threatening situation makes me feel like sullying my nipple-high jeans. That's why I'm a wimp. Not because I'm scared of a fight but terrified of the public scorn as disgusted onlookers howl at my soaking crotch.

 So why, when I actually do need a pee in a public toilet, do I stand frozen to the spot unable to produce a drop, let alone a stream unless I shut my eyes tightly, hum loudly and stick my fingers in my ears thereby creating the logistical problem of support. ( A Psychiatrist answers........)

I know that I'm not alone in this but please don't e-mail me.

My wife, often assures me, in that gently understanding, ego-busting manner, beloved of women everywhere that I carry " A great deal of historical guilt and one huge inferiority complex beneath an outer, very brittle veneer of  remarkable arrogance, intolerance and impatience so typical of all male hyperchondriacs who remain welded to their mother's apron strings!"

 And that on one of her good days when she's feeling kindly-disposed towards me! Oh! And in one breath with eyes rolling in opposite directions in a purple face with steam coming out of her ears and arteries sticking out of her temples!

I think I'd probably asked her what was for dinner at a bad time!