Story 3 From The Toilet Seat

STORY 3 FROM THE TOILET SEAT
The door stuck but I shoved it shut anyway. Today I was going to write. No creepy crawlies or men wearing onesies would be allowed to distract me. I thought. A man’s voice startled me. Then, I realised it was the voice of the presenter coming from the gimmicky toilet radio my family had bought me for Mother’s Day.
“Is there a right and a wrong way to hang a toilet roll,” the radio presenter was asking. “Is that what I’m paying good money to listen to,” I grumbled stretching over to shut him up. But before I could reach the radio he spoke again. “What way do you hang your toilet roll,” he asked. “Call us – we’re waiting for your call.”
“What manner of eejit would waste money and time calling in about bog rolls to a local radio station,” I lamented. But I couldn’t help focusing on my own kitten soft, pink quilted toilet roll. It sat flush with the wall. It uneven ends dangling down. I looked closer. The chew marks on the end looked very like the teeth marks of my spaniel. “I’ll kill her,” I muttered.
The radio was ablaze with callers wanting to talk about how they hung their toilet rolls. A man and women were debating it hot and heavy. “There is a right and a wrong way to hang your toilet roll,” the male caller insisted.
“Man up and get a life,” his women opponent mocked. “When i was a girl we used newspaper cut into squares and speared on a lump of wire. How would you be able to hang that in the right way,” she hissed.
My pen stopped in midair. I’d forgotten all about that. “Made me a fluent reader,” I chortled adding my two cents to the argument raging between the two radio callers. “Mind, I had to painstakingly put the newspaper squares back together again so I could read all the juicy scandal in the News Of The World.”
“So there is a right and a wrong way to hang your toilet roll,” the presenter’s snazzy voice asked egging on the fight between the two callers.
Forced into action I took my toilet roll off its holder and turned it as they used to say,”arse about face.”I studied it for a few seconds. “Naw, makes it look fat and ugly – can’t see the nice wee hearts and flowers on it,” I mused just as the toilet door got a shove.
“Why do you have to write in the toilet,” my son huffed.
“I’m not writing. I’m merely making sure my toilet roll is politically correct,” I pointed out sailing, out past him blank page and pen in hand.
His muttered response sounded remarkably like “What a load of shit.”
“The things you learn on local radio,” I mused giving the turned about toilet roll one last lingering look.