by that mover and shaker Ira Maine
As a supplement to the ages old ancient practice of gathering dry twigs for kindling, we here at Soggy Bottom have also developed the habit of collecting and hoarding those cylindrical cardboard tubes that lurk usefully at the centre of all toilet rolls and paper towels. As our family is well aware, when dry twigs are in short supply, many a merry blaze has been given it’s start with the aid of these useful devices alone. To this end, the Lady of the Manor (God bless her) has, at suitable locations, placed strategic bins into which all cardboard cylinders must be gathered, on pain of the stick.
In the normal way, tube transference is a simple matter. You simply pull off the last of the paper towels, mop up the spilled Grange, cross to the bin and drop in the latest tubular contribution. Kitchen or dining room, lounge or verandah, this method is tried and tested, and needs no further testimonial here. However, there is one area of the family home where the normal rules, the accepted ettiquette and proper modes of cylindrical behaviour do not, and simply cannot apply. It is to the family home what outer space is to astronauts. I refer, of course, to the bathroom, and specifically to my own tiled and chromed extravaganza.
Most houses I come across have their toilets separated from the main thrust of the bathroom. The toilet lurks, perhaps a little embarrassedly, usually in a room about the size of a coffin with a tiny doll’s house porcelain handbasin specifically designed to smash you in the hip as you sit down. Not at our house. Oh, dear me, no. Resplendent in its warm wooden seat and surrounded by friendly showers, handbasins and sophisticated bathroom accoutrements, our toilet provides you with both ease and comfort and a splendid view of the garden should you choose to fling wide the window. To the left and conveniently to hand, a generous, soft and forgiving roll of the finest ‘fluffy but strong’ toilet tissue, which by a tortuous and circumlocutory route brings me back to the centre, the nub of my story.
One day, having completed my business, I found there to be insufficient tissue available for my needs. By my left foot a whole new pack of six, conveniently placed there by my glamourous and ever vigilant Lady of the Manor. Emblazoned across the pack wrapper was the advice to ‘please dispose of this wrapper thoughtfully’. Hmmm.
If you’ve found it necessary to replace a toilet roll whilst you are still seated and whilst still in in a partially unadministered state, you will also have found that disposing of the used cardboard cylinder from the old roll now presents a problem. You cannot arise and go now and go to Inishfree, for reasons too delicate to pursue. The only feasible course of action available to you is to, instead of just dumping it on the floor where it might cause an accident, simply nail your courage to the sticking place and hurl the disused cylinder across the room in the general direction of the strategic bin. When I first tried this, something miraculous happened. The missile flew through the air, hit the corner of the shower, bounced off, hit the mirror, flew down into the sink, performed a perfect 360, sailed out and leapt straight into the bin. I have been trying, since that day, to replicate this astonishing feat with a view to turning it into a marketable game.
If at any stage you should find yourself a guest in my home and you experience an inconvenient lavatorial delay, be patient. The noise from within means that problems of Archimedian proportion are being wrestled with, problems that may very well change the world. It may be of some comfort to you to know that the inconvenience you are now suffering is a small price to pay when you consider that you were in on the ground floor when something big
…began.
Soggy Bottom, January 2015