It was mid-December, the middle of the Christmas shopping rush, and half the bank's tellers were ill with flu. Unfortunately, I was not one of them. The queues of customers were endless, and Sandra and I, the only two tellers on duty, had been forced to skip our mid-morning break in order to cope with the situation. Relief staff from another branch were to take over at lunch time, but it was only eleven fifteen and I already needed relief. My bladder felt uncomfortably full, but all I could do was to maintain a frozen smile for the customers and wait.

      The time crawled by with interminable slowness, so that I was convinced a whole hour had passed when it was still only eleven thirty. In agony now, I smoothed down my skirt in the few moments between customers, wishing that I could plunge my hands beneath it and press them against my crotch to give my tired muscles a rest. There was no way I could actually do it, alas.

      I could tell from Sandra's posture that she was in the same predicament. It really was too bad of the management to put us in this appalling situation, expecting us to focus on something as important as handling money when we were both so uncomfortable and distracted.

      By ten minutes to twelve, I could not longer sit still. I kept crossing and re-crossing my legs, doing my best to ignore the sensation that the waistband of my skirt had shrunk by several sizes. My concentration wandered, and on several occasions I had to recount bills before handing them over to customers. I was fast approaching my limit, and prayed for the last few minutes to pass swiftly. They didn't, of course.

      When twelve o' clock finally arrived, I began flicking regular glances towards the door at the back of the room, waiting for the relief team to arrive and release me from my desperate situation. When no one had turned up by five past, I found myself near to panic. I simply couldn't wait much longer. I looked across at Sandra, and catching my eye, she mouthed the word sorry, flipped her sign over to display CLOSED, then hurriedly departed from the room.

      I looked after her in astonishment, unable to believe she'd just abandoned me. Customers began complaining in raised voices, and while a few gave up and left the bank in disgust, the majority shuffled over to join my queue. I almost burst into tears, barely able to maintain my outward composure. I kept working, hoping Sandra would return to allow me to get to the loo before it was too late, but she didn't reappear. Had she actually gone out for lunch and just left me to cope? Hadn't she realized that I was every bit as desperate to pee as her?

      I kept working for another few minutes before the unthinkable happened: I lost control for a moment, releasing a squirt of urine into my knickers. That was it: I simply had to go. Had to. I flipped my own sign and stood up, acutely aware of the ponderous bulge in my abdomen. Irate voices followed me as I hurried to the door and staggered through into the corridor beyond, making a bee-line for the Ladies.

      I was half way there, just passing the open kitchen doorway, when a hand shout out to grabbed my right arm. Startled, I lost control of my bladder again and more pee jetted into my knickers. I somehow clamped it off, but by now I was literally burning with desire to release the rest.

      "Hey!" I exclaimed angrily, trying to pull free of whoever had hold of me, delaying me. Whoever it was dragged me into the kitchen where I found Sandra sitting on a chair, her. arms pulled behind her back and duct tape pressed over her mouth and cheeks.

      Two other female members of staff had been similarly restrained, and standing between them, a gun in his hand, was a man in a black ski mask. I turned to see that the person who had grabbed me was similarly attired, and also armed. Still gripping my arm, he forced me towards a vacant chair. "Oh no, please," I pleaded, realizing what he was about to do. "I have to go to the loo."

      "Shut up," he ordered sharply, forcing me to sit as his partner advanced with a roll of duct tape.

      "No," I protested. "I really do need the loo."

      "I told you to shut up," my abductor repeated. He sounded angry, so I complied, sitting with my thighs pressed firmly together as his companion taped my wrists behind me.

      I was absolutely bursting to pee, and decided to risk a final plea for clemency. "Please let me use the toilet," I begged. "I can't hold--" A strip of duct tape was pressed over my mouth and cheeks, silencing my protest. Helplessly, I crossed my legs, tensing every muscle in an effort to hold on until this nightmare was over.

      I noticed that the front of Sandra's grey skirt was wet; clearly they had not let her use the loo either. I tipped back my head in frustration, tormented by having had the prospect of imminent relief so cruelly snatched away for me. I began writhing in my seat, furiously bouncing my knees and breathing noisily through my nose in sharp, shallow gasps. I'd never experienced such a raging desire to pee in my entire life.

      Suddenly, the kitchen door flew open, startling me and making me release another jet of pee into my underwear. A third man in a ski mask entered, saying, "The law's outside. Somebody must have tripped a silent alarm."

      "Shit!" my captor exclaimed, then asked, "What about the money?"

      "All loaded, but how are we going to get out of here? They've got shooters."

      My abductor turned to face me. "With a hostage," he said, and stepping close so that he towered over me, he ordered, "Get up!"

      My stomach knotted as I struggled to rise, and growing impatient, he grabbed my hair and lifted me. I moaned through my gag, still trying to keep my legs crossed, but he shoved me towards the door, forcing me to start walking. I hobbled, doing my best to keep my thighs pressed together, but his repeated shoves forced me to take longer strides.

      He directed me towards the loading bay at the back of the building where a white transit van stood, back doors open, its interior crammed with bags. "Get in the van," my captor urged his colleagues. "I'll take her outside to make sure we get safe passage." He pushed me forward again, my every step now sending a jolt through my tortured bladder. I don't know how I managed to suppress the urge to wet myself, but somehow I did.

      As we approached the entrance, I saw that police cars had blocked the street. Armed men crouched behind the vehicles, their weapons trained on us. Parked behind them at a safe distance, I noticed a media van with a camera mounted on the roof, recording the excitement for an entertainment-hungry audience.

      An exchange started up between my captor and the police negotiator, but I wasn't listen. All my attention was absorbed in hopping from foot to foot and trying not to disgrace myself on national television. Suddenly, he rounded on me and snapped, "Stand still!" I shook my head, trying to tell him that I couldn't, but of course it came out as nothing more than an unintelligible mumble. He twitched the muzzle of the gun in my direction, and with a tremendous effort, I made my legs stop moving.

      My breathing now tight and strained, I pressed my thighs together with all my strength to compensate for my lack of motion, but it was a poor substitute - my urge to pee intensified with alarming haste. I fought it as negotiations resumed, but within moments, urine began flowing again, this time uncontrollably. It quickly drenched my tights as it streamed beneath my skirt, snaking past my trembling knees and spilling down onto my calves. Most of it gathered on the pavement around my feet, but some collected in my shoes.

      I glanced at the wet patch spreading over the front panel of my skirt, and knew that a similar blemish must be appearing on the back. I was utterly mortified and felt my cheeks flush with the embarrassment of actually wetting myself in public . I closed my eyes, grateful for the relief from the pain of a distended bladder, and doing my best not to think about the humiliation I would simply have to learn to endure.

      After all, what else could I do?