Come fly those pricey skies

Strange question perhaps, but have you ever wondered what a cup of wee goes for on the open market? Or, to put it another way, exactly what the cost of urine is per fl oz?

What the hell, you’re probably thinking. Why would I, or anyone for that matter, ever want to or need to know. Well, while you’re asking, I can actually think of a few who might, including those who participate in urotherapy (drinking your own pee) and those who are partial to the odd golden shower – but we won’t go into that, I’ve just had my lunch.

Anyway, about the question of cost. Unfortunately I can report that if ‘wee’ was up there with the worlds most valuable commodities, its value would probably lie somewhere between that of coal and gold. About £85.00 per cup – give or take a couple of pee. Sorry pence.

So how do I know this? Simple, it’s called Tempur. Let me explain.

A month ago we boarded one of the many planes that aided us in our exodus back from Australia to the Motherland. Having once again been the very last family to board, we bumped our 4 over-sized pieces of ‘hand’ luggage all the way to 899 C,D, E and F in the tail of the plane, sweating like beasts and collecting at least 15 different skin samples from seated passengers as we went past. We eventually reached our seats, searched in vain for space in the overhead lockers and fell down in exhaustion.

I staked my claim on the single seat on the other side of the aisle and herded kiddies into the window next to Daddy. Now this may not have been kind or even fair, but it’s best all round. I admit to loving/liking/tolerating my children a little less at 33,00 feet. Plus patience isn’t top of my virtues list, even when both feet are planted on the ground.

When shoe-horning the children into the necessary positions, my son, who is somewhat on the petite size, rattled around under his seat belt. So we decided to prop him up a bit on the pillow that I always carry with me when I fly. My Tempur pillow. The one that I treat rather like a much-loved 3rd child. Having a back shaped like a boomerang and creaky hips like an arthritic grandmother, it always guarantees me a good night’s sleep wherever I am. The pillow case also doubles up as a rather handy place to stuff and smuggle through check-in anything that’s too heavy to squeeze into said hand luggage.

Now I probably don’t really need to join the dots for you to know what happened next, but just in case you’re not big on puzzles, here goes.

Half way through watching Shrek, 3 cups of water after take off and 1/2 hour after the bread roll had been crumbled into the blanket, my son loudly informed everyone that he needed a wee. Or should that be he loudly informed everyone that he was right in the middle of realising he needed a wee. Now normally he has excellent bladder control and can hold 3 times his body weight in liquids, but not this time. Oh no. Puss and Donkey were proving such a distraction that he completely forgot where he was, or that he wasn’t sitting on his padded Thomas seat above a toilet bowel.

As my husband spotted him in mid-flow in his seat, he squawked loudly. Across the aisle I leapt up in panic (squawked a bit too) then quickly hoisted my son out of his seat, up, over and onto the floor next to me.  Unfortunately for my daughter who was sitting in the middle, deep in DVD and completely obvious to the drama unfolding around her, she got rather dripped on in the process. She squawked even louder. Yes, my family does sound like a load of distressed hens when in a crisis.

So there I am, hovering between the seats with a soggy 3-year old-looking expectantly up at me and the knowledge that for the first flight in a very long time I hadn’t packed any spare clothes for him. Normally I would, but being a 5-hour day flight and with toilet training well behind us I’d figured I’d be safe. Apparently not. Stupid Mummy. What was I thinking.

We squelched our way back up the toilet and squeezed in armed with some wet wipes and a small blanket. Not sure what I really had in mind for the blanket. Perhaps my sub-conscious was hoping for a sewing machine so I could quickly rustle up some fleece trousers on the baby changing tray. We emerged 10 minutes later smelling rather like a toilet brush, though I’m not sure if that was down to the wet clothes I was carrying or the air from the cubicle still clinging to my skin. As my son waddled back to his (new dry) seat next to me, he grinned at everyone we passed. He of course found the whole episode highly amusing. The air hostess, who came scurrying up to point out a pair of wet Bob The Builder pants I’d dropped 9 seats back, not so much.

After deciding against trying to squeeze him an Air Asia branded 6-month old babygro (he may be petite but he’s not malnourished) we opted instead for the far more stylish ‘jumper tied around waist’ option. And that is how he landed into Malaysia – going commando and wearing a makeshift skirt.

Of course there was one more victim in this incident. The pillow that his little bottom was perched on when he forgot where he was. My poor Tempur pillow, which, to give credit where credits due, did do a sterling job of soaking up the contents of his bladder in the memory foam. A week later when it had finally dried it turned hard, crunchy and a rather pretty shade of pale yellow.

It cost £85 to replace. Give or take a few pence. And there in ends my story of woe and the reasoning behind my theory for the price of wee.

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