“I mean,” I admitted, “I probably don’t actually need to see him poo himself.” Oliver glanced speculatively towards the happy couple. “Are you sure? It could be arranged.” “How?” “Laxatives in the champagne. There’s a twenty-four-hour chemist up the road.” I’d heard people say the key to a good relationship was still being able to surprise each other. But I think, maybe, it was an unexpected willingness to arrange public defecation.
