29: Potty Training

As anyone non-British will discover when they visit the country, electrical sockets are generally installed in the place of greatest inconvenience. Nothing of higher power than a shaver socket is ever to be found in a bathroom lest we accidentally electrocute ourselves by using a hairdryer in the bath and the light switch hangs from a dirt-encrusted string that disappears into a suspicious stalactite on the ceiling.

I was reminded of the way in which we regularly make life difficult for ourselves – whilst pretending that such irks are perfectly normal – in the Boston Hotel Buckminster on Saturday afternoon. Perhaps other rooms are different but, in room 502, the bathroom light switch is cunningly hidden in the bedroom.

Did it matter? Did he lack of light play any part in the drama about to unfold? Let me know…

The luxury of time to perform a light switch search does not exist after sitting in a car for forty-five minutes, not long after a fried breakfast on the morning following the intense celebrations at the end of a three thousand mile bicycle tour, when your bowels are trying to explode. The urgency with which I rushed into the bathroom with a single purpose in mind did not allow the extravagance of appropriating reading materials and so the availability of light was unimportant.

Even the ownership of a new Nick Hornby novel would not be enough to bring a halt to the irrevocable flow of events and I was content to execute and complete the task in the minimal gloom that could filter through the closed wooden bedroom shutters and reach around the bathroom door. Einstein’s observations about light and straight lines do not apply in hotel room situations, particularly in times of personal stress.

Eventually satisfied, I stood and reached behind to press the flush. Something not quite right with the sound of gushing water made me turn to observe. Dismayed, I watched the silhouette of that-which-should-not-be-named rise towards the edge of the bowl and remain perilously close to its rim.

Holding my trousers up with one hand and finally locating the light switch several yards away with the other, my worst fears were confirmed; a blockage. Would it go away? Would there be a long pause, followed by a comforting swoosh as normality returned?

No.

I tried to will the situation better but my powers of telekinesis were insufficient. I glared at the disobedient toilet with the best look of superior British scorn I could muster. I kicked the side of the bowl repeatedly. Nothing changed.

Ben Stiller faced a similar situation in There’s something about Mary and attacked it with an ornamental toilet brush - but I had no toilet brush. Besides, I’m not Ben Stiller and stand no chance whatsoever of shagging Cameron Diaz. Not that the toilet brush incident played any great part in advancing his success on that score (ha ha excuse the pun), but I’m just saying… Oh, never mind.

I tried to ignore the vile, nasty potty in the center of the room. Time to lower the lid on, umm, well, just time to lower the lid. There are more things to do than worry about – that.

The toilet refused to be ignored. I unpacked and went back to the bathroom to check – maybe it’s all better?

No.

I plugged in the laptop, waited the usual Sony eternity for it to boot up and then checked the bathroom again.

Perhaps a small decrease in the level.

Should I try another flush? Too risky. An overflow situation did not bear consideration. Time to take a shower. Maybe another usage of the water system would cause something to occur? Clutching strings is the technical name for thoughts like that.

Problems in the shower with reversed hot and cold water, unmarked and entirely unsqueezble shampoo and conditioner bottles and the usual lack of places to put toiletries paled into insignificance.

The toilet was in control.

Anything could happen. I’ve seen it at the movies – one moment all is fine and the next, the toilet takes on a life of its own, becomes a high-pressure fountain and covers the bathroom ceiling in, well, let’s just say it misbehaves in a very bad way. I couldn’t forget Ben Stiller and the toilet brush.

Several times, I slyly pulled back the shower curtain to make sure nothing disastrous had occurred. The lid was still down. In my mind it had become a living, breathing evil plotting demon from the pit of hell, whose mission was the destruction of a single being; me. I even thrust a tentative step out of the shower, wet and naked, to gingerly lift the lid in the hope that fate had intervened.

It had not.

Nothing had changed by the time I was dressed. What now? I’ve had toilet problems before, but always had the tools available to deal with it. Now, I have not. Then it hit me…

This is a hotel.

Of course! I pay for this room. That’s what hotels are for – blocked toilets and other dramas are part of the room rate. It’s like insurance. Not everyone blocks the toilet, just like not everyone has a car accident or a house fire or a burglary – but we all pay for insurance.

Why am I worried? Why do I care? It’s not even my fault, not really. This isn’t New Jersey, where everyone is a percentage blameworthy for everything.

I don’t live here. It’s not my apartment and it’s not a friend’s home where I’m house-sitting, baby-sitting or dog-sitting. No one knows who I am other than the guest in 502 and I’ll be gone on Monday. It’s not my responsibility – what’s what hotel maintenance people are for. Do I care if they’re Mexicans and have horrible jobs. I began to smile; a plan had formed. The toilet was no longer in control.

I got dressed, picked up the bedside phone and called the front desk. If the phone cord had been longer, I could’ve glared into the bathroom at the same time as I reported it. Bastard toilet; that’ll show it.

On the way out, I even kicked it again; viciously, this time. No psychopathic improvement of Thomas Crapper is going to get the better of me.