Story From The toilet Seat

Writings From The Toilet Seat

Notebook in hand I rush in. I do a little dance as the lock on the toilet door clicked into place. Liberated! Freedom is mine  for a while. Now I’ll get peace to write my  story.  Yes, I write in the toilet. It’s just the best place. They can’t get at me to ask me question and break my  concentration. Happily I arranged myself on the new  cream Argos toilet seat.

“Mum, where are you?” a voice calls.

“In the toilet.”

“It’s not the toilet. It’s the shower room ,”my  son mutter, moving away.

“That’s nice,” I say mimicking Mrs. Brown off the telly. Like her, I want to say something rude.

I open my notepad and flick the biro down. “Well, would you look at that?”  I say addressing my reflection to the mirror to my right. A lone woodlouse marches boldly out from behind the wood paneling. Must be a man? No female would be so foolhardy as to come out all brazen like that and me sitting here on the throne. I think.

I hovered my booted foot over its shell. It stilled. “Probably think it’s an eclipse of the sun,” I say. “Ouch, it seems wrong to crush the poor thing – and him so brave. daring to show himself . Might even be one of my past  relatives,” I murmur.” I hear they come back in a different form.”

From beneath the overhang of my boot the woodlouse pressed stoutly on “You on a reconnaissance mission, or what?” I hiss. “If its drink you’re after it’s not your day. Only teetotalers in  this house  I’m afraid. ”  He hesitated at the wet patch on the tiled floor’ ”If you had been earlier there was plenty of water, if that any good,” I said opening the notepad ,pen at the ready. Aborting his trip the  woodlouse scuttled back under the wood. “Go on – get in there. Tell your mates I’ll be waiting for them with my deadly spray can if they dare to come out when the lights dim.” I murmured as the bathroom door got an insistent rap.

“You nearly finished in there. I need in.”

“use the toiler.”

“You’re in the toilet.”

“No. I’m in the shower room,” I call back gleefully.

Outside rain tapped at the window. I knew without looking it would be  puddling anxiously on the patio stones outside. It reminded me of the leak  behind the shower that had made its present felt on Christmas Eve, Yes, you’ve guessed it – Power Shower hurriedly dismantled, tiles snatched feverishly from the walls in a vain attempt to locate the cause of the dripping towels languishing in soggy piles in the airing cupboard.

“No Shower! Use the bath?”  My adult child  bawled an incredulous look of horror washing over her face when I broke the news that the shower was caput, defunct

“I know,” I said dryly.” It has to be  some form of child neglect – depriving twenty-somethings of  twice a day retreat into water world shower land.” She missed the point of my wit and rushed off into the bathroom an armful of towels clutched to her chest. She was no sooner out until her brother nearly knocked her down as he passed her in the bathroom door, hissing,” You better not have use up all the hot water.”

He came out bathed and all pinkie bright, I beamed with parental pride at the cleanliness of my kids –  until I looked into the bathroom!   It looked as if the tide had come in!  Water was lapping around the toilet bowl.” It’s not Donegal Bay you’re bathing in,” I’d roared.

I brought myself back to the toilet and my short story.

The woodlouse scuttled back under the pine. “Go on – get in there. Tell your mates I’ll be waiting for them with my deadly spray can if they dare to come out when the lights dim.” I murmured as the bathroom door got another  insistent rap.

“Mum, there’s a man here to see you,” a voice shouted through the door.

For a moment my heart soared. “Is it the assessors from the insurance company come to ‘interview’ us in case we might be scamming them about the burst pipes that flooded the bathroom?” I called out, pen poised  hopefully from my seat on the lid of the toilet.

“No!  Its our neighbor. The dog got  out and …”

Hurriedly I rose from the toilet seat. “Not the neighbor who has the duck pond?”  I breathed. “Does he have anything in his mouth?”

“Who? The neighbor?”

“No! The dog!”

I unlocked the door. “The short story  will have wait to another day,” I sighed relinquishing my moments of freedom.

Gemma Hill