For some reason after our lovely holiday I had scheduled a number of tiresome chores. On Thursday I had to take the car to the garage for some repairs and pick up a courtesy car. That doesn't sound so bad, but trying to move two carseats, two strollers, etc from one car to another while managing both children on my own was not fun.
On Friday I had the alarm company scheduled to come and install the new alarm system. Rosie has started teething and, after a rough night, I woke up on Friday morning with a cranky baby and an upset stomach. I was desperate for the loo but Rosie was screaming the house down so I gave her her bottle. By then it was 8.30. Tobes was at nursery and Rosie was fat and happy so I was just heading for the loo, magazine in hand, when the workmen rang the bell. Damn.
I'm one of those people who hates going to the loo in other people's homes or when people might be able to actually hear me using the bathroom. Silly, I know, but it just makes me uncomfortable. Our bathroom opens off of the little hallway which is exactly where they were installing the new alarm box so I decided to hold it. What seemed like hours and hours and HOURS later they moved into Toby's room to install some gizmo there and I saw an opportunity. Rosie was peaceful in her bouncy chair so I quickly ran to the loo planning to do the fastest poo of my life.
It was a nightmare. I could hear the guys coming to get some tools from the hallway and I felt so embarrassed that they would know that I was doing something as heinous as moving my bowels that I grabbed my electric toothbrush and turned it on. There. Now they'll think I'm just in here brushing my teeth.
So there I was, poised on the toilet. One hand holding a vibrating toothbrush, the other twisted around and ready to flush at the crucial moment so that no repulsive sounds would be heard. I had just reached the point of no return when simultaneously the doorbell went and Rosie started crying. I could hear one of the workmen saying, 'Mrs Futers? Mrs Futers?' I wanted to die.
When I finally emerged and went back into the living room I saw a pile of post on the sofa. Ah, must've been the postman at the door. A bit later one of the workmen popped his head in and said 'The postman rang and I didn't know where you were so I just put the post here for you.' So polite, so English. The flat is hardly the Taj Mahal. I'm sure he knew very well where I was - off doing a poo. Thank goodness he was so polite. I think my head might've exploded if he had actually alluded to my whereabouts. I'm a weirdo. I know.
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1 comment:
oh poor you! when andrew and i first met, i didn't poo for days at a time - only when we went to public places and i could fake a long line waiting for the loo! that must've been weird - a girl who disappears for 10-15 mintues everytime you go to a mall/tourist attraction! :)
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