Nat Locke: Why hearing ‘just go in the bushes’ still fills me with dread

I’m self-aware enough to realise that, these days, most of my anecdotes start with “The other day at the dog park . . .” but in my defence, I do spend a lot of time at the dog park.

Anyway, the other day at the dog park, I witnessed something that unlocked some previously suppressed memories.

My dog was snuffling around in the bushes that sit along one side of the oval. This is an activity that he loves because it combines his two favourite things: sniffing things and peeing on things. Everyone’s got to have a hobby.

Anyway, I looked up and saw a mother and daughter walking briskly towards me. This happens only if the approaching strangers (a) once owned a bearded collie and therefore desperately want to pat my dog or (b) they are ardent listeners of our radio show and want to say hello (and also pat my dog).

But on this occasion, they were doing neither. In fact, they were walking past me, paying me no heed whatsoever, and the mum was ordering the tween daughter to — and I quote, because it is the most mum quote ever — “Just go in the bushes”.

Shudder.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a mother (both my own and others) say “Just go in the bushes” I could almost afford the therapy I need to address the trauma it caused.

Growing up in the country meant that school holidays involved long car trips to our grandparents’ farm in Bruce Rock. Except for the times that we took long car trips to Tambellup to visit our other grandmother. Either way, it was a long time on the road.

And with three kids in the car, can you imagine how often one of us would say “I need to go to the toilet”? And naturally, never at the same time. Inevitably, the nearest town — and therefore toilet — would be about 100km away (in any direction), so eventually, dad would pull over on the side of the road, and we would be bundled out with grain trucks flashing past, and the strict instruction to “Just go in the bushes” ringing in our ears.

I did not cope well with this instruction. Not then and not now. I am not a natural bush pee-er.

Obviously it was a much easier proposition for my brothers to deal with, for plainly evident anatomical reasons. For us girls, it’s always been a bit more of an ordeal.

First, you have to find a bush that obscures you sufficiently, and this isn’t always easy in the narrow road reserve between the gravelly shoulder and the electric fence keeping the sheep in their paddocks. Then you had to inspect the ground for potential hazards like ant nests, pointy sticks and danger noodles of the tiger and dugite variety. Had I spotted one, I would have immediately peed my pants anyway, which would’ve fixed one problem, but caused another as mum would’ve had to begin rifling through the suitcases to find a clean pair of knickers.

But I digress. I haven’t even gotten to the squatting part yet.

I consider it one of my greatest failings that I have never quite mastered the art of the bush squat. I never seem to know what to do with my pants. Do I take one leg off? Do I take them off completely? It seems unlikely, given I can manage to use a toilet without having to do so, but, not unreasonably, I’m concerned about peeing all over my clothes in the outdoors.

Now, I understand that there will be seasoned campers reading this scoffing “How can this woman not know how to pee in the bushes?” and I’m here to say that it’s because no one ever showed me. I have just had to muddle through with mixed results.

As such, as an adult, two things have resulted from this trauma. One, I eschew camping at every opportunity. It’s not my only objection to camping, but it’s not an insignificant factor. Secondly, I have an impressive ability to hold my bladder. Somehow, those long road trips have resulted in what I can only imagine is a huge bladder capacity and an iron clad pelvic floor. I know, it’s quite the flex.

So no, I won’t “just go in the bushes”. I’ll stay in civilisation instead.