I have long been quietly proud of my bladder control. Not for me the frequent, often urgent, toilet visits of my middle-aged friends. Motorway pitstops not for petrol, just for a pee? Not me. Nor was I ever heard to say, before setting off, “Ooh, I’d better just pop to the loo.” No need, you see. And in pubs, the hours I’d spend drumming my fingers, lonely as a cloud, waiting for my friends to return from the gents. Poor souls, ageing quicker than me, I reflected, smugly.
Hubris, sheer hubris. Last week, I read that a chap of my age and weight – 55, and 97kg (15st 4lb) – should be drinking 3.7 litres (6.6 pints) of water a day. Since I have endeavoured to comply with this guidance, my pride in my bladder has been flushed away. No wonder I could control it – I was hardly putting anything in it.
