Somewhere in the Pyrenees, Burtdad and I found ourselves in need of snacks, and quite out of the blue, we spotted a little store. It was the only building for miles around, ridiculously remote, settled in the bottom of a valley. God, alone, knows what the hell they were thinking when they built it, but it was just what we ordered. We descended the mountain via a long, curvaceous road, and eventually arrived at the store. Unsurprisingly, there was only one human inside - a young girl who must have had to be air-lifted in and out of the place, five times a week, assuming it's open more than once a month.

We perused the snack department. Burtdad made his usual biting remarks about various things - the music, the store's color scheme, the foreign names of food that sounded rude or stupid to our naive ears. The usual. But then, he decided it wouldn't be a bad idea to use the facilities, before heading back out on the mountain (because there would be nowhere to pee, up there). He politely (in his best French accent) asked the girl if there was a toilet for visitors, but she said there was only a staff toilet, and he was not allowed to use it.

This would floor the average chap, but Burtdad was unfazed, dropping "but I've got diabetes" so casually and quickly, you'd have thought it were true. The girl naturally changed her mind, at once, leading him to the staff facility. Being Burtman, I followed, as though the invitation automatically extended to friends and family. But this is where Burtdad came into his own.

Once he'd closed the door, he had assumed some sort of privacy would follow. And just for his own amusement, and likely for mine, he decided to begin making exaggerated toilet sounds. This lasted the duration of his visit. The only thing was that, being the staff area, the girl had stayed, probably to make sure I didn't steal 1000 packets of Hobnobs from the stock room. She heard the whole performance. We laughed, quietly, to each other, as it dragged on, and when it was over, he started crooning. And there was vibrato like you've never heard. It was something else.

And then he opened the door, expecting to see me, but instead, saw us. And it hit him that the innocent young girl had heard everything that had only been intended for my ears. He would have gone cherry-red, had he been a normal guy. Well, he wouldn't have put on this kind of performance, had he been a normal guy, but he just grinned and thanked the girl for letting him use the facilities. He did this in his French accent. She was a good sport, all right.

As he closed the door, I figured I should go, too. I looked at the girl and unconvincingly said "I've got diabetes, too." She laughed and I went in. My visit was much more civilized, of course, but then, I knew I was audible. As I returned to the store, Burtdad proudly owned his balls of steel, continuing to peruse for snacks, while the only other human in the store, besides us, was probably hearing his performance on a loop, and trying to forget it.

At the checkout, we met the girl for the last time, and Burtdad engaged his French accent for the last time, managing to slip out "Monsieur Pompidou", and "Pomme de terre", in his final utterings to the poor, traumatized girl. Not knowing where to look, I just gave her the default thanks/sorry face and followed him out the door.