Shall we go to the bathroom, I suggest, as he snatches a piece of lettuce from the bowl I left out on the dining table.
“No, I'm fine” he says, munching on lettuce.
Dad, I can smell it. It's time to change your diaper.
He shakes his head, snatching another piece of lettuce.
I can smell it, dad.
“What do you smell?” he asks, annoyed, munching on lettuce.
I can smell the shit in your diaper! Let's go!
“No, there's nothing of the kind”, he insists.
Okay, let's make a bet; we go to the bathroom and check. No shit, I owe you a 100 pounds. We find shit, I get a hundred out of you.
“Deal”, he says, excited.
This was a bet I would rather not have won because said diaper was indeed full of shit in addition to plenty of piss. So much so that the old man's crotch was smothered in the stuff like Swiss fondue. This is a time when all manner of social inhibitions and psychological holdups are completely obliterated, and you become laser-focused on one thing and one thing only: Cleanup.
Very. Serious. Cleanup.