Close Call

The sign said 'Liege'. A smelly town in proper Belgium. The stop was short, much distance lay ahead. I parked the bike on its pedestal right near the kiosk, and then went inside to help myself to its soft papers that one would use to wipe then flush. That was the plan. And, if your travels take you to that smelly town, I hereby warn you that their railway stations do not have seats but single holes, two handles, where they do expect you lay your egg of brownish colour. Oh, what a shock! And when my key fell into that, which was intended to travel further down, through force of gravity, I had to stoop, though turned around, no longer squatting close to peril. And dug with skill, and, let us say, much quiet desperation until I saved it from a certain last farewell.