You all know IT: poop or die time. According to Luan, "Pat ... was just desperate to go to [the] toilet [2] and told us he could not wait any longer."
"Sadly," noted East Sussex Coroner Alan Craze, "he chose the darkest possible place in the marshland [3] by a very steep ditch."
Luan and Maryanne waited. And waited. Irritation turned to anxiety, and anxiety to alarm. They flagged down a passing motorist who assisted them in a vain search of nearby fields and ditches. Finally the police arrived, and their worst fears were confirmed. Pat's body was found floating face down in a water-filled ditch, just fifteen feet away from the car.
"I think death would have occurred fairly quickly, possibly in a matter of seconds." Hastings pathologist Dr Stuart Barnes said. "If he had fallen into the water head-first on what was a freezing cold night, he would have got one hell of a shock. That, together with lungs full of freshwater, would have been fatal."
What were poor Pat's last words? The news accounts don't say. But imagine a wife and sister's feelings of never being able to say goodbye. A cautionary tale for us all: don't let your lover leave for the loo without communicating that you care -- for every pit stop may be your final one. As the ballad The Wreck of the Old 97 [4] mournfully concludes:
Now, ladies, you must take warning,
PoopReport extends its deepest condolences to Mrs. Webster and the family.
From this time now and on.
Never speak harsh words to your true loving husband.
He may leave you and never return.
