A sh*t of the tongue

I was getting dressed yesterday morning when Charlotte arrived with some startling news.

"I shit on the dining room floor."

Now, this is not something I would expect to hear from my daughter.  I say so for three reasons:

1. She's a girl and I've always been told that girls don't, you know, poo;
2. She'd not performed such a foul act (pardon the pun) on the dining room floor in the past; and
3. I'd not previously heard her swear.

So I asked her to tell me again what had happened. 

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Tell me again."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Say that again."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"What happened?"

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Say it slowly.  What did you do?"

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Slower."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"OK, one more time.  Tell me what you did."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

I was now officially concerned.  So I took her downstairs with me to see what state the dining room floor was in.

Thankfully, there was nothing to report other than a clean(ish) carpet. 

So I asked Charlotte to tell me again what she'd done.

"I shit on the dining room floor."

"Again."

"I shit on the dining room floor."

I decided a change of tack was necessary, albeit one with an element of risk.

"Can you show me what you did?"

And with a little nod, she threw herself to the ground.

"Ah!  You slipped on the dining room floor?"

"Yes."

Good news.  (She wasn't hurt).