Can you guess where I’m writing this?
I’ll let you in on a secret, I quite enjoy the toilet.
It’s like being in prison without the issue of being so pretty. No one can get to you, there’s a social custom dictating that no one bothers you, and, well, there’s stuff to do, like thinking, movie-watching and reality-avoiding.
My life went pretty well with this, until I got married. My wife is more like that lady from The Devil Wears Prada, demanding, scary, and has zero respect for boundaries. Despite repeated polite requests for her not to chat to me through the bathroom door, she did. Until I got used to it (my spirit broke) I was more blocked up than a university dorm shower drain, but I adapted.
Then my darling future felony suspect was born, grew into a toddler, and changed the way I go to the bathroom forever.
Now it’s more like a guerrilla attack. I usually have to wait till I’m prairie-dogging, then I try to avoid eye contact like a dodgy dad does with child support and I sneak away. I sit and try to clear my mind of the million things that I have to do/have done, the weight of which tightens my bowels up like the Australian government’s climate change budget.
Hark, I hear it, sneaky little ugly footsteps and rapid, weetbix-fuelled breathing. Then, much like Edgar Allen Poe, there’s a tapping at my freaking chamber door.
Cue the entry of a toddler who generally brings half his toys with him, plus a lot of questions that I don’t want to answer. What’s that he says? A willy mate. What’s it do? Well not freaking much since you came along!
Sometimes, I suspect my wife sends him.
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