A Turd In the Hand

Picture the scene: an idyllic Brazilian beach. The sun is shining, my children play in the shallow warm surf as hundreds of people parade along the coast for miles in each direction. The tide is out and it's about a kilometre or so back up to the busy kiosks, bins and shops at the top.
Then, disaster strikes! My two year old girl somehow manages to deposit a huge turd into the surf at our feet. I am immediately forced to make a split second decision. Do I ignore the offending fudge monkey (perhaps sweep it out into the waves with an innocent flick of my flip flops), or do I swiftly take ownership of it as any good parent would and clean up the beech? The bins are miles away and there is no option to bury the horrid thing without risking it being dug up again immediately by gulls or other children. To add insult to injury, 'turdenstein' appears to be fairly buoyant. It just keeps floating there in the shallows staring up at me like a tiny brown lilo.

Unfortunately in my moments of frozen indecision, other people have started to notice & remark upon my daughters latest creation. The decision has been taken out of my hands (or rather into my hands).
I manfully reach down and grab the offending item like the responsible parent that I am. But this is just the beginning of my problems. I now face the long lonely walk back up the beach to where the bins/drains etc. are. And the beach is packed out. Umbrella shaded sun worshippers, people selling beer, sweet corn and even one Brazilian maniac who has set up a full meat barbeque on his push bike. He is making his red hot fatty way along the strip selling kebab skewers of un named meat to holiday makers and locals alike.

Many people make eye contact with me as I stride up towards the bins. I return their gaze with what I hope is a reassuringly firm nod which says,
'Yes I am clearly a gringo. Yes this is a ripe  turd that I am clutching in my hand. No this is not something that British people traditionally bring to the beach. No, I am not interested in purchasing an ice cream or coconut from you at this moment in time'.

I finally make it to the palm shaded salvation of the bin area but it is also packed with people. Now the hot embarrassment as I have to wait in line to use the bins without people noticing what I am trying to surreptitiously dispose of.
Eventually I make it and manage to hide the massive douche under a Cornetto wrapper. I wash my hands under the outdoor tap and walk back to my family at the waters edge with my neck burning in shame as much as with the hot afternoon sun.

Ewwwww.....

Since having children, I have been pissed on, thrown up on, kicked in the balls almost daily at times and (on one occasion) hit so hard by my infant son with a metal torch that I almost passed out.
But the time with the turd on holiday is my absolute no holds barred worst experience to date.
What is yours?