Tiles.

Posted on by JonnyB

We go to choose tiles.

I am not sure quite how I got myself into this situation, but my delight at being in the King’s Lynn branch of ‘Topps Tiles’ (a name that surely should belong to a tile shop in the Beano) is only marginally tempered by the realisation that I have forgotten to change my trousers.

I should have changed my trousers because Baby Servalan vomited in my lap earlier, and to the untrained eye it looks, to put it politely, a bit like I have jizzed all down them.

“Can we go now?” I ask the LTLP.

“No,” she replies.

“But I really need to do a poo.”

She looks at me in some contempt. “For Christ’s sake. What with you and the baby…”

“It’s not my fault. That coffee has gone right through me.”

“We’ll go to Homebase after this,” she announces. “You can go to the toilet there and,” she shakes her head, “do your poo.”

“Are you sure it is a genuine toilet?” I ask. “Enclosed, with paper and all that? I am not going if it is just a display in the bathroom section.”

“It is a genuine toilet.”

I am a bit happier at this. My best-case scenario is to be allowed to go home to do my poo, my worst case is to continue choosing tiles and not be allowed to do my poo. Choosing more tiles whilst being allowed to do my poo seems like a good compromise. We park at Homebase and I hurry-waddle in ahead of her.

The toilets are pretty well next to the tills, and are sternly labelled ‘FOR CUSTOMERS’. Bearing in mind that I have already waddled past the staff in an odd fashion, I am anxious that they do not think that I am a non-customer who is sneakily taking advantage of their facilities for some nefarious purpose. I try to let them know this, using telepathy. I am sure that they are looking at me suspiciously.

You would think that toilets in DIY centres would be the most incredible spaces, full of shiny bathroom gizmos to inspire, with labels telling you in which aisle to buy such fantabulism. But this is a place of disinfectant, of off-white washed walls, aged Armitage Shanks and plastic seating. It screams ‘municipal!!!’ louder than the Revd Iain Paisley fleeing down the streets of North Belfast being chased by a giant municipal.

I sit and do my business, hoping that the LTLP has entered the shop by now and that the staff have realised that I am a genuine toilet-authorised customer and not some wierdo.

I am some time in there.

As I go to leave, a member of the Homebase staff marches in through the door. He is checking up on me!!! I push past him in my ostensibly jizz-covered trousers and go to rendezvous amidst the tiles.

Posted on by JonnyB

“So how’s the building work going?” asked Short Tony.

“Your dogg has shat on my bathroom floor,” I complained.

“My dogg?”

Short Tony’s dogg raised a quizzical eyebrow from its slumptness on the stone flags. I looked at it in a stern fashion. The animal went back to sleep, my reproach unacknowledged.

“It might not have been Short Tony’s dogg,” the LTLP offered.

I had to concede that she was right.

“What does it look like?” asked Short Tony. “Hers are normally about… this big.”

“No – this was about… that big.”

“What colour is it?”

“Light.”

“Ah. Hers are usually quite dark.”

I apologised for maligning Short Tony’s dogg.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a cat?” asked Mrs Short Tony.

“It would have to be a bloody big cat,” I explained patiently.

“Or a hedgehog? They are quite big. Or a badger?”

“It looked like dogg to me,” I maintained. “On the bathroom floor. Ironically, exactly where the toilet is going to be. In the future.”

Short Tony disappeared to examine the evidence, presumably utilising a tape measure and colour chart. I felt foolish for making unjust and unproven accusations. The dogg slumbered on the floor.

Posted on by JonnyB

I inspect my building work.

The cottage has been in a stage of semi-demolition for some time now, and I have been going over there periodically to check progress and take photographs. The difficulty up to now has been finding times that fit in with the builders not being there; aside from not wanting to give them an excuse to stop work for a chat, every time I reach for a camera they hastily slip behind walls, cover their faces, dive slow-motion into cement mixers etc.

One of my key aims has been not to spoil the fact that the cottage is essentially old and historic. The Methodical Builder has been very helpful in this respect, in that by the time he has finished the cottage will be even older and historicker. But progress has progressed and there are now some walls, which seems like a good start even to my untutored eye.

I need to come to terms with one thing though: I no longer have a secret bookcase which opens to reveal a large alcove within, like in the Scooby Doo cartoons.

A commenter reminded me of it the other day. I pretended I still had it, which I feel bad about. My staircase has moved, and with it has gone the secret bookcase which opened to reveal a large alcove within, like in the Scooby Doo cartoons.

The SBwOtRaLAWlitSDC has always been a key element in this piece of writing – part of its essential charm, perhaps. And I have had it removed, just like Hanna Barbera introduced Scrappy Doo. I would like to find somewhere in the house where I can build a suitable replacement thing. If anybody has any ideas then please let me know.

Posted on by JonnyB

“Well I LIKE brussels sprouts,” she maintains.

I look at her closely, wondering why we married.

The vegetable box has arrived, and we are searching for something green to go with our delicious liver and bacon. The only such thing in the vegetable box is brussels sprouts. I must have upset the Vegetable Delivery Lady.

Miserably, I start preparing the Brassica of Much Controversy.

Whatever little topic I choose to write about here, I always do try to avoid the obvious subjects or easy targets. But of course there are certain things – Telford, Jack Straw, brussels sprouts – that one must give a good kicking to occasionally, for fear that they somehow become readmitted to polite society by stealth, perhaps in some postmodern ironic sense. That is how the Nazis came to power in the 1930s, and I do not want to be responsible for the re-emergence of their vegetable equivalent.

I slice the ends off viciously, trying to lose as much sprout as possible in the process. How can something this watery and bland have such a bitter aftertaste? If I wanted that sort of experience then I would buy a James Blunt album. The weekly mystery vegetable delivery is, tragically enough, the highlight of my week, and I tend to take disappointments badly. The inclusion of brussels sprouts is one such, and it has quite taken the shine off my weekend.