Toilet humour

Okay, so I mostly phoned it in yesterday. But I was just thinking of you, you know. Sometimes you don't want a whole, long diatribe about my life to wade through, no matter how full (or empty) it may be of thrilling hilarity and/or insightful witticisms. But I want you to know I'm still here for you, so I limit myself - with great personal sacrifice - to no more than a line or two.

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Twice today Monkey raised my hopes and then dashed them. Mid-afternoon, he announced loudly that he was going to the toilet, and then ran off to the bathroom by himself. I followed, to see what was up, and he told me to go away. "Oh-kay," I thought. "Maybe this is it. Maybe his need for privacy and a big truckload of sense have both just kicked in. Together. At once.... Hmmm."

Five minutes later he emerged with his jeans tucked into his socks and wearing cardboard 3-D glasses under his pulled-up hood, and annouced that he was Baseball Man. His superpowers are speed and strength, I believe. And, as his father remarked when he did the same thing later on this evening, a bladder of steel.

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Earlier on, he and Mabel had found my discreet emergency stash in the spare-toilet-rolls drawer in the bathroom. (Not the chocolate digestives. The Ladies' emergency stash, if you know what I mean. Oh, wait. Same diff.) When I got to the scene they were passing them back and forth, bartering a pink panty-liner for two yellow maxi-pads, and finding out how many tampax regular you can fit in the centre of one toilet roll. (Five, if you must know).

Which is still better than the day I had to remember to remove the unwrapped panty-liner from the coat-closet door where Mabel had stuck it (and where it was impressively camouflaged) before company arrived.

Gratuitous culprit photo