I’ve decided to embrace my inner grumpiness through a series of posts I’m calling ‘the mutterings of a middle-aged man’. And before you say it, no, it wasn’t always such; at least not officially.
And where better to start than this.
I’ll leave you to ponder this photo for a few seconds, although I should probably warn you, look away now if you’re easily irked…
Are we done?
I’d like to assume you share my horror, although judging by those I share a house with, maybe I shouldn’t be quite so presumptuous.
I’m talking about the ring of ire which, given the subject matter, possibly isn’t the best choice of phrase.
It has nothing to do with last nights curry and everything to do with what surrounds the toilet.
Let’s starts with the toilet roll sat atop the cistern.
Now, if only there was somewhere within easy reach to put that toilet roll. Oh, I don’t know, like a toilet roll holder or something?
Ah, but Mark, there’s already an empty roll on there, where could you possibly put that? If only there was somewhere within easy reach for the empty rolls to go, too? Like a bin, maybe?
Funny you say that. If you follow the trail of discarded empty rolls that’s precisely what you’ll find. You can’t miss it, there’s an empty toilet roll ON TOP of it!?
On top of a bin you can open without so much as lifting a cheek.
A cheek that was clearly lifted when someone went waddling across the bathroom to get a second toilet roll because they weren’t aware there was already one behind them. Which they then left on the side of the bath?!
Now, if only there was somewhere to put that. Like a toilet roll holder or…. need I go on?
This is the ring of ire I’m faced with on a daily basis, and it’s self-perpetuating.
At best it’s wilful neglect, at worst, psychological warfare.
And I know what you’re thinking. In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? I mean, really?
Yes. Yes it does.
You see, the shower used to be my sanctuary, right up until the kids discovered they could scold me out by turning on any tap in the house. It was at this point I retreated to the toilet.
“I’m having a poo!”, is my cry for quiet, even if not always literally true. (I’ve been known to shout it from the bedroom).
So you see, the toilet is no longer just a seat of necessity, it ‘s taken on an almost spiritual significance.
It’s my place to ponder. My Mecca to mindfulness. My social media hub, and if I don’t have my phone with me, somewhere to proofread takeaway menus or contemplate whether Janet’s latest over-priced bottle of gunk is for cleaning, cooking or casting spells.
But what chance is there of ever finding inner peace when you’re surrounded by such wanton irritations; and for once, I’m not referring to the kids.
So I called a family meeting. In the bathroom. And without apportioning blame (albeit staring mostly at Janet) I explained everything that was wrong. I demonstrated, through role-play, precisely how the toilet roll system works. Twice. I accepted their eye-rolling indifference as an apology and left them with this,
“A place for everything and everything in its place”.
My work here was done. The gospel according to dad, preached. Praise be to order.
Or so I thought….
Still to come on the mutterings of a middle-aged man…
The curious incident of the solitary sock on the stairs.
The randomly discarded receipts of a working mum who doesn’t have to tidy.