Before I begin this blog there are a couple of things I have to explain. Firstly, the expression ‘the little room’ when talking about the toilet/lavatory/loo/whatever you want to call it at our house definitely describes our throne room exactly. It really is a very small (but adequate) room.
Secondly, my ironing board is quite a big one, very solid in construction, and with a catch that locks it into place when in use – or alternatively releases it when the ironing is done and the board can then be flattened for storage.
What has our loo and my ironing board got to do with each other you might well ask, well for the want of a better place to hide it away I keep the board in that ‘little room’, leaning up flat against the wall.
The other day I had finished with the board and put it into its flattened position but couldn’t put it away as his nibs was in the toilet. So I stood it up against a wall nearby and when it had disappeared I knew he had put it away for me.
Also having done a disappearing act was his nibs himself and I realised he was again in the toilet, though the door hadn’t been closed properly. As he had only been out of bed that day after spending two days tucked in with a severe chest cold, I called out ‘are you alright?’ but there was no answer. I started to panic a bit and again called out ‘are you alright?’. ‘Of course I’m ….. not alright’ (I’ve deleted a few choice words here). ‘Can I come in?’ I asked. ‘If you can get in’ was the reply.
So I carefully pushed open the door and there he was pinned into the corner, unable to move, captured by an ironing board that had somehow managed to release itself and had insidiously started to rise up, all by itself to about half its normal height where it had stuck. The board was completely jammed against one wall at one end and against the toilet bowl itself at the other with the poor man squashed between it and the wall. At least I now know that the distance between the toilet bowl and the back wall is the same length as my ironing board. (I said it was a very small room).
I started to laugh but soon stopped when I saw the look he gave me….
I manoeuvred myself round the door and pushed it closed behind me so that I too was completely in the loo. Two people, one large ironing board, and not an inch to spare. I tried to move the board but to no avail, I could neither get it up or push it down. It was very heavy. It was a solid object. It was stuck. I managed to get my fingers on the locking mechanism but that felt loose and wouldn’t connect. All this time my other half was standing there helpless. I started to realise that if the board slipped even a little towards me and pushed into the door I, too, would be stuck and confined to a life in that small room until such time as rescue arrived (which might not be for days!) as I wouldn’t be able to get out either. I might add here that I am very claustrophobic these days and have a dreadful fear of getting locked in a lavatory.
Talk about the three old ladies who were….
All this time his nibs was helpless, completely jammed in, arms by his side, a prisoner of the ironing board. The funny side of things wasn’t very amusing any more and my laughter had dried up.
Anyway by sheer determination (and a lot of luck!) I somehow managed to move the board a bit so that I could sort of stand it up and with its rounded end almost down the toilet freed the man. With a few more pushes and pulls I got the board into a position where I was able to close it up and eventually put it where he should have put it in the first place….and I know where he would have liked to have put it by then.
Grateful to be freed he was not however impressed when I asked him if he would care to re-enact his part in the whole thing and let me film it as I regretted not having done so in the first place. Should have grabbed my camera as it would have been a video on a par with Frank’s antics on Some Mothers Do Have ‘Em, and yes some mothers certainly do.
Secondly, my ironing board is quite a big one, very solid in construction, and with a catch that locks it into place when in use – or alternatively releases it when the ironing is done and the board can then be flattened for storage.
What has our loo and my ironing board got to do with each other you might well ask, well for the want of a better place to hide it away I keep the board in that ‘little room’, leaning up flat against the wall.
The other day I had finished with the board and put it into its flattened position but couldn’t put it away as his nibs was in the toilet. So I stood it up against a wall nearby and when it had disappeared I knew he had put it away for me.
Also having done a disappearing act was his nibs himself and I realised he was again in the toilet, though the door hadn’t been closed properly. As he had only been out of bed that day after spending two days tucked in with a severe chest cold, I called out ‘are you alright?’ but there was no answer. I started to panic a bit and again called out ‘are you alright?’. ‘Of course I’m ….. not alright’ (I’ve deleted a few choice words here). ‘Can I come in?’ I asked. ‘If you can get in’ was the reply.
So I carefully pushed open the door and there he was pinned into the corner, unable to move, captured by an ironing board that had somehow managed to release itself and had insidiously started to rise up, all by itself to about half its normal height where it had stuck. The board was completely jammed against one wall at one end and against the toilet bowl itself at the other with the poor man squashed between it and the wall. At least I now know that the distance between the toilet bowl and the back wall is the same length as my ironing board. (I said it was a very small room).
I started to laugh but soon stopped when I saw the look he gave me….
I manoeuvred myself round the door and pushed it closed behind me so that I too was completely in the loo. Two people, one large ironing board, and not an inch to spare. I tried to move the board but to no avail, I could neither get it up or push it down. It was very heavy. It was a solid object. It was stuck. I managed to get my fingers on the locking mechanism but that felt loose and wouldn’t connect. All this time my other half was standing there helpless. I started to realise that if the board slipped even a little towards me and pushed into the door I, too, would be stuck and confined to a life in that small room until such time as rescue arrived (which might not be for days!) as I wouldn’t be able to get out either. I might add here that I am very claustrophobic these days and have a dreadful fear of getting locked in a lavatory.
Talk about the three old ladies who were….
All this time his nibs was helpless, completely jammed in, arms by his side, a prisoner of the ironing board. The funny side of things wasn’t very amusing any more and my laughter had dried up.
Anyway by sheer determination (and a lot of luck!) I somehow managed to move the board a bit so that I could sort of stand it up and with its rounded end almost down the toilet freed the man. With a few more pushes and pulls I got the board into a position where I was able to close it up and eventually put it where he should have put it in the first place….and I know where he would have liked to have put it by then.
Grateful to be freed he was not however impressed when I asked him if he would care to re-enact his part in the whole thing and let me film it as I regretted not having done so in the first place. Should have grabbed my camera as it would have been a video on a par with Frank’s antics on Some Mothers Do Have ‘Em, and yes some mothers certainly do.
