Pooing.
I used to like a good shit, you know.
Hell, a good shit, I still enjoy muchly - I know that you're supposed to be out of the anal stage on Freud's Psychosexual Development thingymajigger by the time that you're 3 years old, but I guess my maturity in that area has been held back a tad, or maybe Freud was simply full of the precise material that I oh-so-love to expel from mine rectum - but the problem is that a good shit is so hard to find nowadays.
It probably started when we last moved home; the toilet here is separate from the bathroom; right next door, you understand, but the designer of this house obviously thought it would be funny if its inhabitants had to wipe their germ-ridden hands upon two door knobs before they had a chance to wash them. As if that wasn't chagrining enough, the lock on the door to the toilet has been painted over.
You'd probably think that that wouldn't be a problem; all one has to do is announce their inhabitance of the lavatory whenever they hear someone else approaching. Unfortunately, however, such a courtesy is, without fail, met by the pseudo-sardonic response of 'Thanks for that!'
After about a year of this, I became somewhat irritated.
In order to avoid such an occurrence repeating for the SQUILLIONTH FUCKING TIME, I took to grasping the door handle as hard as I could manage upon hearing footsteps which had reached a certain proximity, so as to prevent anyone being able to open the toilet door should they attempt to do so. I should probably point out at this point that footsteps 'reached a certain proximity' whenever anyone else in the house was moving; this meant that I spent a somewhat large percentage of my lavatorial adventures grasping the aforementioned door handle.
Now, I don't know if you've ever tried taking a shit with you arm outstretched and your fist clenched, but I can assure you that it isn't easy. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it's impossible. Combine this with the amount of time I have said arm in said state, and shitting takes me approximately 45 minutes. That's 45 minutes in an extremely small room, with my horrifically flabby thighs spooled out across the toilet seat (still single, ladies!) listening, with unnerving clarity, to two old women attempting to discuss politics next door ('Jail would be like a holiday camp for their sort!'), my penis resting dead centre between my legs, occasionally leaving little pools of piss on my bacteria-laden throne, which I have to keep cleaning up with toilet roll.
So I rarely get a good shit anymore.