Oh Merde, God In Potty time again

This is what I've been slaving for these past two weeks. I haven't stopped since I left Lincolnshire; I've shovelled and swept and heaved and humped, all to tidy up the house and narrow strip of concrete that passes for the garden, because Little Petal's son is coming here today for a brief visit back from Australia, and she wants to give him a right royal welcome.

During my long spell away the home deteriorated into a mass of small piles of things I just didn't have time to sort properly or find places for, and outside became a jungle of Bindweed and Cranesbill fusing heaps of flower pots and sacks of strange compost into ragged alpine ranges.

So I set to on my return, labouring all day outside, and half the night inside, cleaning cobwebs and painting over crumbling plaster, fitting a new handle to flush the loo with, and yesterday was able to declare it done by lunchtime. I set off up to London for a brother's birthday party, and got back long after midnight.

I stumbled out of the bedroom shortly after nine, and found that the toilet was not flushing away properly. Quick and decisive, even only half awake, I poured a couple of buckets of water down, and realised with a sense of awful resignation that this was one problem that I couldn't just close the lid on. I had a set of rods handy, and dealt with it.

And so, an hour before the guests were due, I had packed the rods away after hosing them clean, and swam joyfully in the bath to get myself free of the awful cloying odour, but when I wandered out in my dressing gown to dry off in the afternoon sun, I realised that the problem still hadn't quite been solved. The smell was still there. To make matters worse, the perfect weather she had prayed for had arrived, there wasn't a breath of wind to waft the smell on to someone else's little cabbage patch.

"It's nothing to worry about," said my little petal, "after a couple of drinks they won't notice it."

"Your lot might not," I answered, "but I can assure you that my lot will."

It might be fine for her, she was obviously planning on hosting a sort of Gillian McKeith convention, 'Fee-fo-fi-fum, I smell the poo of an English Mum'. (Gillian's like that, I've noticed, ever so twee about her descriptions of what I frankly would rather not see on television. I'd rather watch a politician than a fat person's turd.)

I began to prepare some words to deal with the situation. "Hi mate, great to see you again. Look, the good news is, your mum hasn't lost her mind, despite all that's happened to her. But, I'm afraid, she's rather lost her sense of smell". There was no way I was going to take the blame for this.

The problem was finally solved by hosing down around the place, moving a Japonica nearer to where everyone would be congregating, and lighting a few scented candles and joss-sticks. Outside? In the daytime? Hey, we're the hieght of unconventiality, we are.


Afterword, or 'final flush'. 'God in Potty' comes from Finnegans Wake, and represents a plummy english voice saying 'Garden Party'. I know you all knew that because you're all educated and well-read blog-readers. I'm just letting you know that I know what it means, too.

After-afterword, or 'Dam that floater'. Finnegans Wake was written by James Joyce. Again, I know you all know that, I just want to make it clear that I do too.

FFS, or 'Out with the plunger'. I really have read Finnegans Wake, really. I know that you all have too, but I really do want to make it clear that I haven't just spent my life downloading pr0n from the internet. Here comes excrement, A lovely pong.