Naturally I would say that it is, of course, my very favorite place to read. In fact, many years ago, my children, nasty little offspring weasels that they are, once gave me this odd looking ornament. A hunched over pink stone-like creature with skinny pipe-cleaner arms and legs. That’s you, they hooted, in your pink dressing gown, reading on the bog.
Ever since I can remember I have skulked off to the toilet with my book for a bit of peace and quiet.
Except many years ago I lived in a house where there was no door on the toilet (was an en-suite and the only one in the house). Visiting friends used to go to the toilet in pairs – one to keep watch – make sure nobody barged in and caught them with their knickers down – literally. One couple got fed up and presented us with a toilet door for Christmas.
A couple of weeks ago I decided to save time and take my toenail polish off whilst plunked on the loo. That was fine. However, afterwards I put the lid down and decided to paint my toenails. Not so fine. The lid cracked into several pieces and I very nearly did myself some bodily damage.
My husband was not impressed. Whoever sits on the loo lid? He howled. Erm yah – me!
But there was to be no reading on the loo with our dog, Fudge. She used to bounce into the bathroom, sidle up and give my leg a nudge with her nose.
Oi Mom! Pass us that empty loo roll up there on the window ledge. Her eyes would swivel to the windowsill and then come back to rest on mine. She had a passion for toilet roll cores.
Of course, you couldn’t just pass it, you had to toss it. She’d go skedaddling out of the bathroom, mats flying, limbs wind-milling in her haste to reach it before some mythical creature could steal it out from under her chops. She would then leap onto the bed and chew it up into a revolting, soggy, brown sticky cardboard goo – which she then often lovingly left on my pillow.