The World of Poo

legs dangling while Widdler the dog ran round in circles unravelling a roll of soft paper, clearly in some kind of dog heaven. Geoffrey felt like a king on his grand throne. Indeed, like many a king, he was perched on the edge precariously, quite concerned that if he wasn’t careful he might slip off; in his case, into the great bowl and its contents below. Eventually, the business at hand being finished, Geoffrey was pleased to see he wouldn’t have to climb up again to reach the chain because someone had very kindly added a length of cord with a cotton reel on the end so it was low enough for him to reach with ease.
     

    Picking up Widdler, Geoffrey wandered down to the kitchen hoping to find some breakfast. The big kitchen seemed empty but, as in many kitchens in old houses, there was a lot of life going on out of sight. There were rats romping along the drains, biting through pipes and the backs of cupboards, and popping up in the sink and through the skirting board. There were all manner of beetles and weevils and spiders and, in the damp corner under the sink, a collection of snails stuck to the wall. As Geoffrey opened a cupboard or two, hoping to find something to eat, he heard a scurrying scratchy sound coming from behind the pantry door. Between a pot of raspberry jam and a large jar of pickled eggs sat a small grey mouse. The mouse looked at Geoffrey and Geoffrey looked at the mouse. The mouse looked at Geoffrey again and then, possibly because it wanted to, or perhaps because it was frightened, did a poo, followed by another one and another one before running off. 1
    Mice are like that. And all that Geoffrey was left with was a number of small dark droppings, which he scooped up. I wonder if mouse poo is as lucky as bird poo, he thought. I must ask Mister Twaddle.

    ‘I wouldn’t put that in your pocket if I were you, my dear,’ said a friendly voice behind him. ‘Let me see what I can find for you.’
     
    He turned round to see a jolly plump woman, standing in front of the old range. ‘My name is Hartley,’ she said, handing him an empty matchbox, ‘and I’m the cook. After you’ve washed your hands really well I’ll cook you some breakfast. How would you like a nice boiled egg and toast soldiers?’

    After breakfast, Geoffrey helped Plain Old Humphrey feed the chickens and collect the eggs. ‘Some of these eggs must be quite lucky,’ said Geoffrey. ‘They’ve got chicken poo stuck to them.’ 2
    Plain Old Humphrey scratched his head. ‘Well, there’s no doubt that when bird poo lands on your head it brings good luck, but the bird’s got to choose, see. Poo may not always be lucky but it’s certainly useful. I use it in the garden. Look over here. I mix horse apples and straw in with the garden waste and that rots down to the best compost you will find. And the thing is, you’ll also find lots of worms there, who burrow away, pooing to their hearts’ content, which helps to break it up and make it good and fine.’ 3
    Geoffrey went to put his hand into the smelly compost heap to find some worm poo. ‘No, don’t do that,’ said Plain Old Humphrey. ‘I’m sure I can find something that will make it easier for a likely young lad such as you to start his own poo collection.’
    He went off to one of his sheds and Geoffrey heard a clattering and rattling and a nasty boingggg from within. 4 Plain Old Humphrey emerged with a garden hose wrapped around him like a snake, which he finally managed to fight off and sling back into the shed. He disappeared again before returning moments later with a bucket and spade.

    Taking the spade, Geoffrey carefully excavated a small hole at the bottom of the great heap and uncovered a tangled knot of wriggling pink worms. ‘What does worm poo look like?’ asked Geoffrey, bending down to get closer to the worms.
    ‘Well, it’s quite difficult to spot in there,’ said Plain Old Humphrey, ‘but see the little curly heaps of soil over here on the grass? That’s your worm poo, that is; it’s called worm casts.’ He brought out a cobwebby old jam jar and trowel for this delicate work, and with a bit of help, Geoffrey carefully transferred a sample of worm poo into the jar.
    Meanwhile, Widdler was running in circles and barking at nothing in particular or anything in general. In the vegetable patch Geoffrey could see a large black cat digging a hole. ‘What’s that cat doing?’ he asked.
    ‘That dratted cat,’ said Plain Old Humphrey