Finding My Level In the Flood Waters

At what point does a turd become a fun activity for all the family?

This thought struck me yesterday as I watched Sky News report on the floods.

Dressed in all the most expensive gear bought straight from the North Face via Millets, their reporter was stood up to his hips in the flood waters and remarking on how everybody was trying to remain in good spirits despite the disaster that had befallen their town. Behind him, some fun loving guy could be seen swimming down the high street and having a splashing good time. The fact that he was swimming in rainwater mixed with untreated human sewage didn’t seem to bother him in the least. And he wasn’t the only one. In the last 24 hours, I’ve watched countless children riding their bikes through the brown waters or enjoying the fun of wading through slurry. I’ve also watched adventure seekers paddling canoes down waters infested with feces.

Perhaps I just don’t understand the difference.

Should I ever come across an unflushed public toilet, I’m overcome by great hulking waves of nausea like I’ve licked Gordon Brown’s armpit. Yet, should I come across the same thing ten minutes later floating past Woolworths, am I meant to look on it differently? Does it become like a frisbee or one of those inflatable balls people play with at the beach? Or are people so divorced from the reality of how their waste leaves their house that they don’t actually consider the possibility that, in the case of a flood, it might come floating through their living room window?

That notion is, of course, totally absurd. Almost as absurd as the idea that a flood plain might occasionally flood.