We'd had a close, intimate relationshp for the past decade.Every day, sometimes twice, sometimes dozens of times, there had been that special private contact with both Noel and me, but never, ever, not even once, all three together. Unlike the social setting of its ancestors, or the public facilities we all know and never love, our toilet seat has a small, but select number of approved users.
Even so, every seat has its day and after ten years of, er, business, its time had come. In what's known a the Ikea Syndrome, where an unsuspecting shopper enters an Ikea intending to buy a set of low-energy light bulbs on special offer at ten for ten Swedich kroner, but leaves with a Billy bookcase, Poang chair, Hurup floor lamp and a Prickig microwave lid, eating Swedish meatballs in the cafe on the way round, I suffered the B and Q version on Saturday when we went for a, 18cm diameter drain cover. They didn't have any, but even better than that, they had oak toilet seats. Not just any old lid-up, lid-down seat, but a self-closing version which shuts but never slams. We played with it for hours before Noel tracked down his Manly DIY Toolbox to do the fitting.
The old seat looked forlorn, Noel forbade me to make it into a photoframe or even chop it up for firewood, though I did plan make to it into a planter to go with the bedpan hanging basket, to pay tribute to its long service…. But it was having none of it and in a fit of jealousy, cursed the place it had been enthroned for so long. It bewitched the new non-slamming lid into to removing my phone from my back pocket and send it splashing down the U-tube.
And yes, before you ask, it was AFTER you-know-what. The phone is currently sitting in a bag of rice, which will, I'm assured, soak up the moisture. The old toilet seat is in the bin along with the bedpan hanging basket.