I was at the supermarket, in the queue to pay, when I felt the first stirring of disaster. I needed to pee

The week started well in that I did all my urinating in toilets for the first few days. So far, so good. Then on Thursday, I had the idea that I would bring my two older boys to JumpZone, an incredible trampoline wonderland in Dublin. There, everyone is furnished with rubber-soled socks and shown a safety video in a small holding pen before being turned loose. It’s hard to hear what’s being said in the video but one section I did catch, and flagrantly disregarded, was the bit that implored us to “stretch” before embarking on the fun.

I even remember having a private scoff at this advice. I’m a runner, I cycle, I go up and down stairs largely without incident. I don’t need to stretch. What I need to do is pee immediately beforehand, which I duly did.

Well, with the very first bounce — despite having just peed — I was moist of gusset. Tragic. I left the trampoline dejected, though annihilating a pack of nine-year-olds in the Dodgeball cage did lift my spirits. With jumping out of the question, I deciding to try out something call Beat The Wall. Beat The Wall consisted of four walls of varying heights covered in grippy material that would-be wall-beaters must try to run up and scale. I sprinted towards the wall and before I’d even gone four steps, was felled by a white-hot pain in my left calf. I veered sideways and crumpled to the ground. Oh, the humanity. It was agony.

Limping and slightly damp from mild self-urination, I accepted that I’d been beaten, not only by the wall, but by JumpZone in general. It was a low moment. Little did I know the worst was yet to come. 

Three days later and I was in Aldi doing the weekly shop — or enjoying, as I like to call it, me-time. When you have children, doing the weekly shop alone is one of life’s great treats. I look back on it now with a sort of grief for the innocent that I was — perusing the miscellaneous aisle, ignorant of what was about to befall me. I was in the queue to pay when I felt the first stirring of disaster. I needed to pee. Now the thing is, despite the non-existent pelvic floor, I have only ever had near-misses. Some of these near-misses have been nail-bitingly close but still I have managed to get to the toilet and, alright, I admit it, sometimes a well-placed bush. So I’d reason to believe this would simply be another close call.

Had I not been locked into the cash-register line, I probably would have abandoned the shopping trolley and gone in search of a loo, but as it was, the woman on the till was already scanning my things. A huge queue of people was behind me. There also didn’t appear to be a loo or bush anywhere in the vicinity. 

I began stuffing the shopping into bags with every muscle in my body clenching and a desperate chant of “oh-god, oh-god, oh-god” reverberating in my head. I was locked in silent combat with my bladder. “Don’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me,” I pleaded. Then the fight was over. A trickle, then a stream, began its journey down my leg.

A certain lucidity descended. The clear-eyed resignation of someone who has abandoned all hope. “It’s finally happened,” I thought sadly. “I’m pissing myself in Aldi.” I assessed my options as I heroically continued packing the shopping. I could pretend to faint? Fake a seizure? Gravity was taking its course with the piss but I was still managing to somewhat staunch the flow with sheer force of will. “Cash or card?” asked the lady. “Card. Thanks,” I replied through clenched teeth (every part of me was clenched at that point). I decided that much like the wall, the wee had beaten me. I was wearing tie-dyed tracksuit bottoms; if you have to be pissing yourself, they’re not the worst things to be wearing, And what a sad realisation that is to be coming to.