A poo story

At the risk of being labelled a public school product, which of course I am, I have to confess I do enjoy the odd poo story.

This is not exactly about poo, but I hope you enjoy it.

Last weekend, I went to visit Paddy's Mum and we spent an enjoyable weekend chillin' and chatting as women do. Saturday evening we went to the West Yorkshire Playhouse in Leeds to watch a comic rendition/stage adaptation of Noel Coward's film Brief Encounter.

Great film by the way, I advise you to watch it and try to understand what Celia Johnston has actually said in that fast and clipped English voice of hers.

So it's the interval, and we're being jostled by several coach-loads of upper-class Saga tourists. A young man pushes past us: "Father! Father!". It was like being stuck at Twickenham.

We went to the ladies. Clare dived in first, I found an empty cubicle at the end of the room. Plenty of posh twittering outside the doors by the sinks. I'd already flushed and was ready to leave.... when the Evil Thought arose.

Something I used to do to Clare many many years ago but have not done for several years...

I stayed in the cubicle and started to groan.

"FFFFNNNNNNYYYYEEEEEEEARGH"

the room went a little quieter, enough for me to hear clare start to laugh. She was evidently by the sinks.

A little louder: "GGGGRRRRAH! AAAAAARGGGGGGHHHH AAARRRRGGH"

By now, clare was laughing aloud and was at the hand-dryer, which was just outside my cubicle.

I prepared myself for the grand finale.


"GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH AAAAAARRRGH AAAAAARGH NOOOOOOO FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATHER! ARGH! OH. AH. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh."

I flushed quickly and came out, giving a really hard stare at the cubicle next to me, and looking shocked. The genteel ladies by the sink raised their eyebrows. Clare and I were laughing. I nodded my head in the general direction of the next cubicle, shook it in mock horror and left, just in time to see this behatted, unwitting old dame exit aforementioned cubicle to be met by a host of stony glares.

I've never laughed so much in public in my life.

The aftermath

Chrome Effect Wood Toilet Seat

Blog Dedication: This, I guess, is for Gorilla Bananas who has berated me for my lack of vulnerability.

Five days and three toilet seats on the same bowl. That has to be a record, right? Saturday I finally got rid of the old toilet seat, which had split down the middle and provided a resting place for each cheek. It took about four hours for me to get the old one off, partly because the previous owners were dumbnuts who obviously hadn't heard of using WD-40 in the bathroom, and partly because I had to keep going out and buying various MAN-TOOLS (no pun intended) to get the durn thing off.

One hand-saw, monkey wrench, B&D pliers, can of WD-40, three cloths, four broken nails, a screwdriver and a litany of rude words later, I lifted the lid on the old white telephone and put the new one on.

Except it was not really new - I'd had it sitting around for a few months and consequently the silver do-dad thingy was missing from one side. I cleaned the entire flat looking for the silver do-dad thingy, to no avail. As a result, three days later, the new one broke with a vengeance as I not-too-gently lowered my tired ass onto it as I stumbled, blear-eyed, out of bed at the unhallowed hour of 5:30am.

As you can imagine, I was not too happy about this state of affairs. Toilets are supposed to uphold pillars of society such as myself. Seats are supposed to stay down when they need to be down. Seats should not callously give way beneath you when you are mid-stream. There should also always be a continuous stock of toilet paper ready for every emergency. I understand that this is a female's perspective: for men, toilet seats are supposed to be up, for no other reason than that the older men get, the less able they are to pee straight and therefore need that extra 0.5 cm circumference gained by lifting - and leaving - the seat up. Men do not always need toilet paper, I was once informed by an old flame. We'll call him Simon, for that was his name. Upon exiting a public loo when out one evening and finding me waiting patiently for him with a bucket of popcorn, he gallantly took the bucket in one hand, and my hand in the other. I had a suspicious thought.

"Simon, did you wash your hand before holding mine?"
"No, but it's okay, I didn't use that one. I'm holding the popcorn with the hand I used."

Who said the course of true love ne'er did run smooth? (That was rhetorical, by the way). Anyway, he was right. It runs in a dribbling, wavy yellow line.

That evening I was late home from work and, to my surprise, saw a Woolworth's open next to the bus stop. I had a crisp craving so went in. While in there, I noticed it had a significant homeware section. As I had only three days before guests descended on me, expecting a fully functional toilet, I thought - "Can it hurt to look?" So I ventured between aisles of Chav-Plastic bathroom accessories, sporty dolphins frolicking on tasteful white loo brush holders.

And then I saw it: A Chrome Effect Wood Toilet Seat. Stifling my questions as to whether it should have been "wooden" instead of "wood", I was thrilled. My bathroom is white and the palest ice-blue, with touches of silver-painted wooden mirrors, handles etc. It was the perfect toilet seat for me. Happily, I picked it up, grabbed a bag of Doritos which were precariously balanced on top, and made my way to the till.

While in the queue, my mobile rang from the deep recesses of my handbag. Tilting my arm slightly to reach it, the seat in its box slipped, and I instinctively clasped it to my chest. As I did, the doritos fell off. I bent down to pick them up. Before I had the chance - HE picked them up for me. Ladies, his eyes! Youngish, well-built, salt and pepper hair, chiselled features, and beautiful, soul-searching brown eyes. I melted instantly. "Remember to be vulnerable" I thought, as GB had informed me in an earlier post that men like their women to be less violent and more gentle and vulnerable. I smiled and let him pick up the packet.

"Thank you" I smiled and whispered.
He smiled back. "You have your hands full", he said, and glanced down at my prospective purchase.

Namely, my chrome-effect wood toilet seat, clutched lovingly to my heart.

His smile disintegrated slowly and was replaced with a quizzical look.

"My toilet seat broke this morning when I sat on it and I have to fix a new one on tonight" I gibbered.

"Oh".

And that was the end of what could have been a beautiful romance. You can't blame him really. No-one clutches chrome effect wood toilet seats like that. Single, vulnerable girls do not buy or fix their own toilet seats. Well-bred, vulnerable girls certainly do not get their toilet seats from Woolworths at 8:30pm on a Wednesday evening. No, it is no use. Alan Rickman will just have to accept me for who I am, staples, chrome effect wood toilet seats and all. At least we will never run out of toilet paper.