“Hast du kaka?”

Milo’s predictable answer to this question, which of course essentially translates to “do you have poo in your nappy?”, intrigues me. Without exception Milo’s immediate, unflinching and awfully convincing reply is “no”; or in recent weeks “nein”, delivered in a perfect Indiana Jones German villain accent, which is amazing.

Of course his position, although firmly put, is completely indefensible and he knows it. A casual sniff in his direction will immediately cast doubt on the veracity of his claim, and a visual inspection will diminish his credibility entirely. Not once have I taken his word for it, despite olfactory evidence to the contrary, and said “oh I withdraw son, my most humble apologies for the unseemly accusation” before continuing with my Horse and Hound magazine. No, I check every time; and I am always right. I must have caught him out in this blatant and inexplicable lie hundreds of times and yet not once have I observed even a hint of regret or awkwardness at his treachery laid bare. He is utterly undeterred.

Last night a series of unfortunate events highlighted this phenomenon to me and convinced me the concept needs to be explored further. While the evening bath was running I denuded Milo and allowed him to frolic in front of the heater. After 19 months I am still able to convince myself that this time my child will be sensible enough not to defecate on the floor. Incorrect.

I looked over at Milo who had quickly assumed a squatting position and a fixed stare. “Milo, are you pooing?” I asked him. “Nein” he replied calmly before leaping to his feet giggling maniacally and disappearing into the spare bedroom at a great pace squealing “kaka, kaka, kaka” in an increasingly inaudible manner as more distance was put between he and the scene of the mischief.

I actually said the words “you deserved that” before scooping up the elegant log and flushing it down the toilet. I then retrieved my sinewy whippet of a son who was running wildly in circles as if he were water descending into a plughole, tucked him under my arm and we headed downstairs.

Five minutes later we were in the bath together. Milo was attempting to entice one of the cats toward him with a Captain Planet figurine while I sat calmly playing with the wind-up duck when all of a sudden I caught an unmistakable shape emerging from the depths majestically, as if it were a feather defying gravity.

Like the flash of red on a deadly spider, or the shock of scarecrow blonde hair on Boris Johnson, there are some things hardwired into the human brain that do not require processing; the image of which bypasses the cerebrum and travels immediately into the reptilian brain, causing you to recoil instinctively to safety. A poo in a bath is one of those things.

It looked like half a chokito that had been placed on a dashboard in the sun to whiten, before being soaked in water overnight. It gracefully made its way up through the water column before settling gently at its surface.

“Milo, did you do a poo?” I asked. “Nein”

“Well, what’s that then?” I countered, pointing at the offending cylinder.

Milo did not entirely discontinue his figurine taunting of Huckleberry but did pass a casual glance in the direction of the lolloping log. “Poo” he said, with no emotion, no hint of irony and an unwavering gaze which said “there are two of us here in this bath dad so tell me what you know about this situation”.

Such bold yet mystifying logic is hard to counter and you lose too much momentum to ask the next obvious question; “how do you propose to reconcile those two statements?” It’s a bit Putin-esque:

Reporter: “Vladimir, does Russia have troops in Ukraine?”

Putin: “net”

Reporter: “Then Vladimir, who are those men dressed as Russian Special Forces?”

Putin: : “They are Russian Special Forces”

Provocative yet effective. I had no further question for my son who had already returned to his task of luring Huck toward danger, and enjoying some success.

Noting Milo’s deposit still appeared to maintain much of its structural integrity I simply scooped it out into the toilet and we carried on with an otherwise very pleasant bath.

It is only under these circumstances that Milo has thus far demonstrated this determined and unashamed dedication to mistruth; but we shall be watching keenly for future inevitable examples.

One other observation I have taken from the experience of recent days is the evolution in my response to unplanned kaka incidents. As I read my response to Milo’s first carpet poo which occurred last July (Day Twenty Six – 28 July 2015) I am simultaneously impressed at my developing maturity and poise, and horrified at my complete submission to the normality of unforeseen and unprovoked appearances of human faeces in the living and dining areas of our home.

19 months