The Witching Hour will soon be upon us…well when I say soon, I mean in 26 days, 17 hours, 59 minutes and 14…13…12…11…10…this bit could take some time…
Anyway, to get us into the mood for the day when the dead walk the earth with wailing souls and mournful cries and when Spawn rises up from the ashes of the fetid, dank darkness of a hellish place, where socks go to die and underpants forsake the humility of cleanliness by lying prostrate upon an effluent laden carpet, I bring you a tale of woe and courage as I take a trip to the bathroom. You’re welcome.
*My bathroom is an afterthought. It is also what one might call bijou.
It’s as though whoever designed the house, was so overly impressed with themselves at the paper thin walls and lopsided floors, that they forgot to add in a bathroom and thus remembering so, quickly utilised what space was left.
They also forgot to add a window leading me to believe that he or she, must have been raised in a cave. Maybe they was going for that ‘In Utero’ look and trying to give off a sense of womb-like tranquillity. Or maybe they just forgot to put in a bloody window!
So not only do the Womb-fruit and I have to contend with a bathroom that even an Oompa Loompa would deem too small, but the lighting system is now acting as though it has been offered a starry role in a horror movie and is acting all…
Needless to say, the light remains switched off, least one or both of us succumbs to a fit of epilepsy.
So I sit in the toilet zone, the sound of the whirring fan my only company…well I think it’s my only company, it’s too dark to see what else is in there. Now it takes exactly four steps to reach the bathroom from my bedroom and thereon, exactly two steps to get to the toilet from the bathroom entrance. In my head however, those footfalls take far far longer. For in the dark recesses of my mind, the aforementioned footsteps, equal an epic journey of great importance and ginormous magnitudes.
The journey inevitable begins from the prison of my bed, whereby a huge exchange will take place between my mind, bladder and body.
Bladder will argue it’s point regarding the need for release and putting forward it’s plight concerning the injustice of having no control and always having to be put on hold.
The mind will rationalise the many problems faced by not getting up and taking care of nature, whilst gently reminding me of the intricacies of the Kegel method and that women with slack Lady Gardens DO NOT get dates.
My body? My body will be in the midst of giving up. All the components that make it functional, will be staging a gang warfare on their enemies pain and fatigue and all the while, I will just be lying there and pondering the fact that if I peed myself, I could always turn the mattress over. Besides, who wouldn’t welcome a bit of warmth on a cold chilly night…even if it is rather wet?
And that’s when dignity comes into play, (Damn you dignity!) forcing me to leave the confines of my enclosure and forwarding me onto my arduous adventure. Those four steps I wrote about earlier? Well they are no longer the mere treading of carpet. They are the battle walk of the weary and the forlorn as I trudge towards uncertain doom. Will I ever reach my destination on time, or like the war torn children of 1940’s Britain, will my bowels evacuate? So onward I march or lightly shuffle, over lands and hills, through towns and valleys, into worlds unknown and of mythical proportions. Encountering Hydras, two-headed werewolves and other beasts of my wanton imagination, my journey finally ends when I slay the fabled underwater monster and declare proudly, “RELEASE THE KRAKEN!” And yes, that is a euphemism for it’s time to poop.
So now I sit on the porcelain throne of my disembarkation, spent and slightly nauseated from the hardship of my travels. I cannot allow myself to feel a slight moment of victory, for the hard work has yet to begin.
Now as it has already been surmised, a trip to the bathroom is no mean feat. Once there, the occupancy of the room could take quite a while because once the cool surface of the throne is warmed by the posterior of the occupier, it’s er…rather difficult to achieve standing position thereafter. And so I stay and wait, and contemplate life from the edge of my toilet seat.
*Taken and updated from my ‘More Sleep Please’ blog