What matters is all relative. Half the world’s population worries where’s tomorrow meal will come from, the other half worries about wifi. I’m one of the fortunate half who worry about the latter and ironically end up wincing on to some poor soul in a Philippine call centre about it, who is in the former category.

With our relativistic stall set out, I will commence.

I have, well strictly now had, two fake poos. They have over many years given me an immense amount of pleasure. They deceive the unwary, in an off guard moment they deceive myself. My favourite one has been with me since the 80’s. A beautiful, exquisite  swirl of papier mache, hues and flecks or brown and mould green. So real, so fresh, so repulsing the mind’s eye sees steam wafting into the ether, like twas freshly deposited  just moments earlier. Through house moves and the ups and downs of life, it has been my faithful companion. At times it spent months nay years in some wardrobe or drawer, to re-emerge in my glinting eye and never utter a word of rebuke to me for my neglect and insouciance.

Then one day passing a joke shop in the nearby seaside report of Scarborough, this plastic effigy caught my eye. Nowhere near the quality and charm of my gritty paper based poo, it nevertheless felt a  modern day pound shop style companion to my old fecal friend. I felt squalid and cheapened dallying with this cheap imitation of an imitation. Hopefully they would get along well and share amusing stories during this long winter nights.

Yesterday all that changed, my world of detritus for charlatans gone forever. In a fit of hubris and carelessness, I stuffed maximal portions of sweaty socks and pullovers into the front loader.

Mr Zanussi clanked and banged and moaned and wept. I thought it was just a zip or a toggle. Little did I know my favourite beloved friend of false excrement had been intertwined with a pair of Tesco value jeans.

Smashed, shattered, maimed and dessicated  into a myriad on mini plops, I had become devil of the doo doo. My beloved shit of the imagination was wrecked. The waste was wasted. Material things matter little to me but somehow this pointless inanimate object meant too much.

In all the time we spent together I have not one photo, one diary entry, one paltry social media entry. It’s like he never existed. I took him for granted and in the end led him to his untimely unturdy death. The shame.

I say now, to the world, Mr Plastic poo, I’ll never treat you like shit.

About Andy Hill

Based in North East England, Andy works as a freelance writer and capital market consultant. In other words, a hand to mouth existence scrabbling for paid work. These skills lend themselves with aplomb to the overcrowded world of direct publishing.
Andy’s first work “I Saw You” rocketed to number four, in the prestigious Kindle Love Poetry Top 100 Free chart. Bettered only by Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley in a flush of ego and hubris, Andy splashed out on a new fridge and fly crib, only for those fifteen minutes of fame to evaporate in sixteen minutes.

He has also written for the Harvey Duckman Anthologies, the latest of which is out now.

• You can fine more of Andy irascible view of the universe at https://tinyurl.com/andyhillauthor
• And follow him on twitter @unrealpeloton