The Ongoing Crisis

Bog Standard

You know you’re an adult when weekends are less ‘vodka shots’ and more ‘cleaning the kitchen counters for the millionth time that week’.

Me: where did all the crumbs come from?!
Also me: *eats copious amounts of peanut butter on toast*

Some people run marathons at the weekend (for fun?!) others, like me, partake in the race of ‘get through all of the house chores so you can spend the evening guilt free on the sofa, pyjama clad, wine in hand’.

So, you can imagine the frustration when an inconvenient obstacle gets in the way of this ritual – like getting stuck in the toilet of your own house. This is what happened to me during what can only be described as an epic adulthood fail.

The weekend had already got off to a rocky start – my attempt at a productive Friday resulted in me dropping a shredder on my TOE and instantly cancelling all my plans (I had no plans) so I could get back into bed and forget all about ‘life admin’.

On Saturday morning I braved the day by getting up early – to clean crumbs, clean more crumbs, iron and … clean more crumbs. On my way to put the kettle on, I stopped for a quick bathroom break in the downstairs toilet.

Then came the moment of horror. As I tried to leave the bathroom, I discovered that the handle had become disconnected from the lock. No amount of shaking the door was going to set me free. I was well and truly stuck.

In the first few moments, I felt like the powerful lead in a film – this was my moment, I was going to break free and be the heroine in my own story. Then I realised I’d left my phone upstairs and promptly burst into tears.

I looked around for some sort of ‘tool’ to break the door down with but there’s only so much damage a ’52 things to do while you poo’ book can do.

I opened the window and contemplated climbing out. Thanks to Storm Eunice (and the fact I can barely fit my head out of that window let alone my post lockdown body) I ruled it out.

Having now been in the toilet for what felt like FOREVER (10 minutes), I started to panic. I made one last attempt to get out by shouting to the dog, hoping he’d developed opposable thumbs and could release me. He didn’t move from the sofa.

I’d just started to plan the Netflix documentary of my ordeal (how I survived on tap water and flagged down passing by Deliveroo drivers for food by waving out the window) when my husband came home.

He released the lock from his side and welcomed me with a big hug (before laughing hysterically and explaining how everyone in the family would be hearing about this).

Normal business resumed after that and I was able to make it to the sofa in time for Ant & Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway (phew).

The moral of the story is always take your phone to the toilet.


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