Foot-long bum ticklers

It can be difficult sharing a bathroom. Especially if you're all sharing it at the same time, since aiming between someone's legs can be tricky. Especially if they happen to be 'Poo Readers' and you have to avoid their newspaper or book of humorous quotations. There are worse dangers though. Dangers that don't just lurk in public conveniences.

Personally, I hate going to the bathroom. If I could superglue my bottom shut and not risk becoming a vast, wobbly, backlog-induced balloon then I would do so. Consequently I live in abject denial that toilets exist for any reason other than to host George Michael's release-parties. It appears that this is an unpopular way to bumble along however, as certain shadowy characters keep leaving evidence for me to stumble upon in order to burst my bubble and force me back to reality. Unflushable evidence.

Upon entering the smallest room in the house, it is only the most hardened soul that would fail to be startled by what may euphemistically be referred to as 'flush resistors'. We are all aware that sometimes our digestive creation may prove too much for a single cistern load, so is it too outlandish to suggest a quick check of the bowl prior to departure? You ask a lot of your porcelain if you expect it to eat something in a single gulp that you have just spent ten minutes birthing.

One of the most horrific aspects of this is the way the colour drains out the object in question, and spreads around it like it's sat on a brown rug. You lift the lid and there it is, reaching out like a pallid baby's arm, surrounded by this grim brown halo. I came home to find such a gift in my bathroom only the other day. As a special treat, this time it was paired with a small clump of matted wiry hairs perched on the toilet seat. I presume this was intended as some sort of garnish.

Presentation must mean a lot when you're haunting someone with the ghost of meals past.

Fifteen feet of pure white snow

"Aah, Winter. Lovely Winter. Lovely, lovely Wint..." [skid] "yikes" [thud, crack] "[thinks] oh dear"
[sirens]
"It's no good, he's paralysed from the nostrils up"
"[eyes pleading] kiiill...meeee"

The snow is coming to get you. No, really, it is. Again. So we're all fucked. Again. A fortnight ago we opened the curtains (or in my case, twiddled the stick that opens the blind) and 'yippee'd about the place as we had forgotten the pain in the arse that snow causes. Literally. Today we opened (or twiddled) the curtains (or blind) and our shoulders slumped to carpet level. No longer thinking 'hooray, we can build a snowman like when we were kids' but instead, "bollocks, this is going to be worse than an infected hemorrhoid in a couple of days". We've enjoyed the nice Raymond Briggsy bit but we've also been reminded that skidding along the pavement is both less fun and more perilous than a pool party at Barrymore Towers. I suppose 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger', but snow makes you break your neck, and in case you didn't learn anything from 'Superman 5: The Quest for Better Stirrups', that might as well kill you even if it doesn't manage to actually kill you.

So, my advice, stay home. Like an old person. Or an unemployed person. Or a Fritzl child. Funnily enough, I noticed in yesterday’s Metro ‘Pensioners burn books for warmth’. Maybe the Nazis weren’t so bad after all. Maybe they were just cold.


(Oh yes, Happy New Year.)