I am fond of Gerard Depardieu (the actor) though, romantically speaking, he is not my type. Neither does it matter.
I am disappointed with him: If, as a grown man, you really ARE banned from going to the toilet – your bladder at bursting point – just as the plane turns a corner you do NOT relieve yourself – in full view of others – in the middle of the corridor. You go to the galley and draw the curtain. You know, that shows a little bit of initiative. Alternatively: Sit quietly – in your seat – use your jacket – even if a fully blown version of an Armany suit – and do your business in there. Surreptitiously as it were. Yes, your jacket will be drenched, yes, you will sit on a wet seat for the duration of the flight but at least you won’t have made a complete ass of yourself. You can always tip the stewardess and the cleaning stuff for their inconvenience later.
Reminds me of many years ago when Apple of my Eye and I had boarded plane only to be kept waiting on tarmac for take off for ages and ages and ages. Turned into a mild, nothing out of the ordinary, nightmare. Naturally, enter a young boy’s (say three or four year old) bladder. He had to go. That was all there was to it. Something had to give. And it wasn’t me. I rarely display, in public, utter disdain for arbitrary rules and regulations. But when I do – it sure works, most the time. We were not yet on a full roll on the run way when the stewardess blocked our way to the toilet with the immortal words: ” We CANNOT take the responsibility.” “No”, I said, “YOU can’t but I can. I am his mother”. She stepped aside. Oh, YES!
And since we are down piss and travel, and it is a deadly combo: Once the Angel and I heading down from England, caught in some traffic jam on a motorway in Belgium or Germany, with not one chance in hell for me to pull over, I handed him an empty (small) waterbottle: “Just do it.” He wasn’t convinced. I presented him with a choice and asked him to employ reason: Wet trousers or a full Evian recepticle? He trusted his mother and enjoyed a dry journey for the rest of it. By the way: Driving on high speed motorways for hours on end and bladders (including your own) are only for those with nerves of steel.
Good old memory lane,