Posts Tagged ‘toilet’

So where has the blog been? Well Blog rhymes with BOG which in the gutter of British slang is only one step up from the loo or the Canadian North Forty, the throne, the John, or the ivory thought processor yes… the toilet.

You see most people want to mark the New Year with some form of reflective moment, even if it is a quiet moment of solitude when we release all the ‘Old Year’ waste and, after the first morning movement on January 1st, we head out boldly into the New Year.

Well that process took a bad turn at the Bog on New Year’s day.  Our lovely heritage cottage sewer line decided it was time to review the Old Year’s wasted moments and hold onto them for a little further consideration.

The sewer line froze and things sort of backed up.  THIS IS NEW YEARS! Do I need this?

Who wants this crap on the number one fuzzy hung over morning of the year?

Out of respect for the many illuminating ‘moments’ endured at the previous evenings festivities I shall not delve into the graphics of the deep and dark world of plugged sewers only to say that the first solution is not the best.  My solution was pragmatic (sort of), I figured that if this is some kind of ****ty psychic message I would counter with my own form of psychic retaliation, though in truth my arsenal of mental tools is at best weak and on this fine morning, for which I have the pleasure of only 2 hours sleep and it is now 9AM (thanks be to the Danish neighbors and their case of wine), it has reached unseen level of transparency.(?)

Using my powers of divination I stamp around the snow and try to ascertain where the manhole cover might be.  I probe with shovel, pike and pole to no avail.  Fortunately a friend from up the road has been watching my madcap snow rummaging and calmly points out exactly where to dig.  (The knowledge of long-term residents!) I however was close and if I’d had a fresh poplar branch I am sure I could have witched the sewer – why not, you can witch a well right?

So I dig down and removed the massive dais that covered the unknown.  So large was the lid that it could have been used as a sacrificial altar for the Gods.

The only thing that revealed itself as sacrificial was my olfactory system.  It’s New Years ands I am staring at a fetid pool of… well if you’re still with me you know.  I stared at the ¾ full abyss – is it still an abyss if it is almost full?

New Years day, hmm, a time of beginnings and I am confronted with a mass of endings so I figure it is best to approach the challenge with novelty.  I return to my psychic meanderings and attempt to walk up and down the assumed line of the sewer and project my telekinetic powers into the stubborn miasma below my feet which will release all the pipes in my home and allow my family the contentment of not having to drive to the nearest McDonald’s to use their loo!  My powers are strong, the connection is growing.  I can feel the resistance, (metaphorically okay!)  I relate to the obstruction.  ‘Are we becoming one with your nemesis?’ My wife asks, cell phone poised in her hand.  I wonder if she is trying to make a higher connection.  I beg of her to be patient.

I reach back to my grade seven science class and reason that we are all compounds connected through chemical ‘bondings’ and I should be able to empower the atoms of my mind to relate to the chemical bonds in the offending obstruction and rearrange them to reach… flow …a new and exciting exit strategy for the obstruction to pursue not dissimilar to the strategies used by the banking community when confronted with responsibility for the financial meltdown.  My telepathic messages swirl and thrust down through the frozen soil.  I’m sure I make a direct ‘contact’ with the ‘thing’ which is ruining my first day of 2011.  Combined with my telekinetic power it must budge.


Nnnnnope.  Is it my frequency?  Is there an offending transmission tower preventing me from making a connection? Is the CRAP not receiving!

Sweating and fraught with the mental exertion my friend returns with a sprung steel snake – twenty meters of hard, crushing, unforgiving thrusting steel power.

I ponder whether it is wise to forgo my newfound clairvoyant abilities in their infancy.

My adoring wife scowls and crosses her legs –someone wants to pee.  Yep get on the snake.

After an hour of threading and thrusting, gnashing and bashing, tears and jeers there came the most almighty connection to Hades from the six-inch pipe.  A whoosh, like some mistral screaming down a mountainside released and nirvana, enlightenment or sewer solemnity roared forth.  In a gush it was gone, faster than Saint Nick up a chimney.  Oh yes… like brown sludge – away it did shimmy!

Now, in reflection, I can see the importance of having enhanced my psychic stamina during this dilemma.  If I had not spent the time t indulge my mental intuitions I would not have come to the realization that every New Year’s is a crap shoot and you have to toil and keep your world flush with efforts.

Well at least mine is flush!



It’s just a sink right?  But it isn’t just any sink….


Now here is a challenge for the Swedish design wizards… a sensible sink in a house full of females.  I am not complaining about living with three members of the ‘finer’ (we’ll see) sex.  I just want to make a kind of ‘State of the Union’ address in regards to the bathroom sink and various issues a guy might have with certain… aspects?

Our flat has but one bathroom, one male, three females, one garbage, one male, one screwdriver and one male (I did mention that) and ONE BATHROOM … to which I finally get access, which is for a brief ten-minute interval just before I need to actually leave.  (Incidentally usually before I am completely finished my allotted time I am inevitably interrupted by the three girls as each will have to PEE (again) before leaving the house.  I’ve learned to do my morning routine like abbreviated dance routines punctuated by moments standing semi-clad outside the door.)

I wade into the bathroom and find a place to stand that is not covered in water.  Why don’t they dry in the shower why in front of the sink?  I then search for my miniscule section of cabinet space.  It’s not easy to find as it is in a secluded area to the left and is usually camouflaged by bras and panties all hanging on dangly little clothesline-thingies.  This miasma of lace and intrigues is ALWAYS in front of my cabinet.  Why?  Pushing aside the cups and niceties (?) I retrieve my toiletry bag.  (OH yes, after years with these girls I’ve learned to consolidate my space.)

Even my bag is stressed to find a place to perch.  There is the blow dryer, curling iron and straightening crimper (which looks like it belongs with the BBQ set) all plugged in with cords neatly trailing in, on and around the sink.  Water… sink… let’s electrocute the guy with the medieval hand shaver!  My small bag is nestled by the taps but tips to one side striking the first of several precariously lined up tubes.  A cavalcade of lipstick and mascara containers clatter in a domino affect lastly striking a moisturizer which is heavy enough to strike one of the fourteen containers of expensive perfume that plummets to the floor.  I snatch at the tiny bottle but only succeed in whacking it against the toilet bowl where it bursts.  Now both I and the toilet will reek of some mystical female pheromone (Do I need that at the job site you ask?).  With the glass splattered on the floor I begin the clean up process – still wrapped only in a towel and half my face in white lather.  My ten minutes is fast evaporating and the first gentle knock comes as a reminder that I am a minority.  There is naught but to rush the clean up.

At last I return to the sink and fumble for my razor.  Another knock.  I pull the razor from the side of the sink where it dropped in panic and drag a long, thin chain-like earring concealed among the other metal fragment /adornments around the sink.  It hits the sink base.  The plunger is up.  I reach for it – but it’s gone.

I’ll be crucified.

I kneel down in the puddles on the floor and open the sink cupboard intent on quickly removing the trap to get it out.  As the cupboard door opens a cavalcade of tissues, cotton swabs, napkins and feminine products pour forth on the wet floor inundating my knees.  A knock – only two taps – must be one of the others.  I struggle to undo the trap and carefully lower it.  It appears there is at least half a woman inside.  Is it a wig or a hedgehog nestled in the sink drain?  My fingers wade through the plethora of blond and chocolate hair.  Find the wayward chain and toss it still covered in hair on the side.  The remaining grunge I toss in the toilet and flush.

A knock and, ‘Camping are we?’  Such darlings.

I toss the bottles and paper products and feminine bits under the sink.  They’ll dry and no one will know.  With a Schumacher like attitude I race the blade around my face and get most of the stubble.

Two knocks ‘Hello?’  Shit!  I have gone over eleven minutes… unheard of!

I toss my bag into the cabinet and reach for the door unaware my arm has slipped through one of the bra straps.  I pull the door clear and down come the bras and panties on top of me.  The female faces stare bemused at my body clad in towels, bras, panties and touches of lather.

“We just wanted to say bye.  We’re leaving early.”

Huh?  I smile calmly. What I wouldn’t do for my own bathroom… even if it was outside!