Today I had a silly row with my other half. Well, to be honest, it wasn’t even a row. I just lost my shit at him over something. I was SO angry that I stormed off to lock myself in the bathroom, SLAMMING the door angrily behind me. And since that slamming didn’t feel like it was expressive enough….I actually lifted up the lid of the toilet seat and SLAMMED that back down again.

It is only now, several calm hours later, that I can look back and realise how bloody peculiar that is. And how, if this was a film, and if that was a dramatic scene where the actress was told to lose her shit at her co-star, not at any point would the director get her to angrily lift up the toilet lid just to slam it down again as an act of aggression/passionate fury. Not unless it was a very bad comedy.

I’m starting to wonder what I might have done next had those two slams still not been enough to quell my inner chimp?

  • Open and shut the drawer full of random bathroom things * banging it as loudly as I could?
  • Turn the bath tap on and off aggressively?
  • Choose a book from the poop-time-reading shelf ** and open and shut it furiously – literally slapping the pages together?
  • Maybe unscrewing the lid on the toothpaste tube and then BANGING it back on with all my might and either only just screwing it back on a teeny weeny bit or screwing it back on so tightly the next person needed pliars?

It is lucky I don’t stay mad for long, really, or it could have been carnage in there.


* The drawer full of random things exists in everyone’s house, although not always to be found in the bathroom. André once had hysterical giggles for about 15 solid minutes when he first moved in and discovered mine in the bathroom. He said, ‘It’s where things in this house go to die . Things in that drawer are so broken and gnarled they can’t even remember what they used to be.’ I self-consciously cleared out the drawer completely after that episode and bought a drawer-organiser caddy. The drawer literally rebelled against the attempt at creating order. The back of the drawer committed suicide down the back of the unit, causing the drawer tidy to shunt backwards spilling half the contents into the inner cavity. In the meantime the space created at the front of this drawer by the sad demise of the caddy was immediately filled by a cluster of more random broken things.  It’s kind of like an elephant graveyard in Africa. Nobody wants one or plans one, but like the dying elephants, my random broken things need somewhere to migrate to. They don’t feel quite ready for the bin and it feels very mean to deny them their dying wish to cluster together in a dark safe space having their last group hug.

** Poop-time-reading-shelves can be found in some, but not all houses. Middle class poop-time-reading-shelves will contain classics like Austin, Tolstoy and Shakespeare. Lower class poop-time-reading-shelves may contain old copies of The Sun newspaper and a copy of the Argos catalogue. Upper classes don’t have poop-time-reading-shelves because, as we know, nobility don’t poop. Especially not The Queen. She doesn’t even have a bottom.  My poop-time-reading-shelf (technically my window ledge) is an eclectic mix of parenting books, great literature (lower middle class roots showing there), business books, and science books. My current read is Professor Stephen Hawking’s ‘A Brief History of Time’. My reading it has nothing to do with laundry time travel events and I will admit that it’s a bit of a slow read for me right now rather than the gripping page-turner I was hoping for. Mind you, everything is a slow read for me because the only time I have time for reading is when I take my daily poop. And since I am regular and have a healthy bowl following my recent adventures in Gozo, I only have time to read one page a day. A friend once loaned me a book to read on my summer holiday. It took me 2 years to finish it. By the time I’d got to the end of the book I’d forgotten what the beginning of the book was about and nearly had to start again. This is why I had to drop out of Book Club. 









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