So Mrs Weeks, the kiddies and I got back from our holiday. While Mrs W put the kettle on I checked the mail, the kids either made for the TV or Facebook or both.
I had two letters from HM Customs & Exise. The first one was summary of the child tax credit I was allowed last year. The second one was confirmation that the allowance this year amounted to zero pounds zero pence. Good old government, somebody has to pay for those cancelled riot-related holidays.
After the general depression of reading the mail I decided to retire to what I√ā¬†euphemistically√ā¬†call my ‘upstairs office’ – I have a downstairs office too. Second to sleeping in my own bed after a holiday, I like using my own toilet for the first time in 2 weeks.
So, magazine in hand, I made my way upstairs, stopping briefly to admire the new wallpaper & painted woodwork in the master bedroom, which had been redecorated whilst we were away. For the last few years we’ve paid someone to decorate various parts of the house when we’ve been on holiday to minimse the disruption.
The guy who we always use had, as usual, done a good job, so it was with a smile on my face with thoughts of HMR&C now fading into the distance I entered the bathroom.
It was when I lifted the lid that I discovered the decorator had left us more than glossy skirting boards; there, staring up at me was the biggest turd I had ever seen in my entire life. I almost jumped back, it was like walking round the corner right into the path of a huge grizzly bear.
I was simultaneously shocked, amazed and confused. How the bloody hell did that get out of a human being? It looked more like something a blue whale might have deposited. I wondered whether to check the house just in case the decorator had crawled away & died of some incredible rupture. Either that or he had an anal√ā¬†caesarean. I truly had seen bigger babies. I was sure a U-boat commander popped his head out the top of the turd and surrendered.
I called down to Mrs W and told her to deduct √ā¬£100 from his bill – we’d need to get the council contractors in to remove it and the child tax credits were no longer going to cut it. “It’s no good Mr Weeks, we’re going to have to remove the bathroom window to get it out of the house.”
I tentatively reached across the bowl to press the flush button, half expecting the bloody thing to leap up and drag me down the pan by the neck, the√ā¬†ignominy of being found with just my shoes sticking out of the toilet was too much.
I pushed the button on the cistern and to my absolute amazement the turd disappeared down the pipes & hopefully out into the bowels of the street. I made a mental note to call the people at the Thames Barrier just to make sure the thing was open. I prayed it was able to leave the sewage system from my house & out into the mix of everyone else in the street, the town, the country, I mean who would√ā¬†believe√ā¬†it wasn’t mine.
I suddenly wanted to return to the hotel to use their facilities once again, mentally traumatised against sitting on my own bog. How could I possibly spend 45 minutes doing nothing but reading on that toilet ever again?
I staggered off to the en suite wondering whether it was all real or I;d just awoken from some terrible nightmare. Still, it could have been worse I suppose, at least all the silver was still in place & it hadn’t been left on the pillow.
NB: This story is true, I have no idea whether I can look the decorator in the eye again.