Who flushes cotton buds down the loo?

WE are bonded with our neighbours by a shared sewerage system. This divides and unites us in equal measure.

When the drains become clogged – and they frequently become clogged – all of us are under suspicion.

Last summer, the very handy handyman at No.32, who has purchased a special rod to clear sewer pipes, accused my household of using too much toilet roll.

How he can pin that on us, I do not know. We do not splash out on monogrammed loo paper.

I’ve accused No.36’s son of creating problems by flushing plastic toy dinosaurs down the pan.

“How do you know it’s my son?” said the indignant dad.

Because I’ve seen what’s on the lad’s pyjamas.

During such crises, the man at No.32 takes control. He pokes with his special rod, removes an offending item, then leads all three homes in a synchronised flushing to ensure everything is again ship-shape.

At Christmas, the offending item was a frisbee.

“How the hell did that get there?” he seethed.

“I’m pretty sure none of us passed it,” I offered.

The drains that serve our row of terraced properties are our responsibility, the authorities have informed us.

This is only fair. I don’t ask anyone else to flush the toilet for me. If they do, I’ve merely forgotten. Ditto, the toilet lid.

The drains go wonky regularly as well, spewing horrible stuff on to driveways.

Forcing visitors to stand in human effluent before entering our abode does tend to put a dampener on even the most carefully planned finger buffets. But we’ve learned to live with it.

We brave householders are expected to roll up our sleeves and unblock the blockage.

Some folk, I’m sure, take to sifting through raw sewage like a duck to water.

I’ve never met one, but I’m sure they’re out there.

IThe unblocking thing is a chore I’m a tad “tickly” about. I have not pulled my weight.

While the other two householders tackle the flood with gusto, I gingerly stand back, hankie clutched over my face. This has not gone down well. Yesterday, a fellow resident marched me to the offending open manhole and demanded I look inside.

“And your point is?” I asked, wiping tears from my eyes. “The point is...,” he barked. “Sorry” I quickly interrupted, “I think I’m going to be sick again. There, that’s got it. Please continue.”

“The point is,” he seethed, “there are cotton buds down there.”

I gave him a puzzled look before asking: “What kind of idiot wipes his...”

“Cotton buds and soap powder,” he ranted.

I peered into the cavity, began to heave again and retreated.

“What kind of idiot...,” the neighbour raged.

“Cleans their ears with cotton buds dipped in soap powder?” I interrupted.

“No,” he fumed. “What kind of idiot flushes cotton buds down a toilet?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t know,” I sighed in a mock show of solidarity, tutting and shaking my head. “Some people, eh? I mean, it’s madness. And pointless. It takes about five flushes to get rid of a cotton bud.” The neighbour’s eyes narrowed. “How the hell do you know?” he demanded.

I lied that as a teenager I’d experimented with cotton buds down the bog – “I was wild in those days” – but soon realised it could lead to harder things, like trying to flush a whole chicken carcass.

“You’ve got a son,” accused the redfaced neighbour.

“Listen,” I told him stern-faced. “Joe is a good lad. We’ve warned him about stuff like that and, heaven knows, his school spent enough time lecturing pupils on the dangers.”

I sidled closer and whispered: “Have you ever clocked the ears on the family living on the other side? Take it from me, they’re spotless.”

He pondered the implications of the tip-off, flung down the hosepipe he’d used to flush offending pipework and marched towards their door, promising: “I’m going to have a word in their wax-free ears.”

I walked back indoors and recount- ed the exchange to my wife.

“It’s a free country,” I moaned. “We can put whatever we want down the loo. I’ve a good mind to pour that large tub of fruits of the forest yoghurt down there.”

Last night, I offered an olive branch over the latticework fencing.

“Why don’t all the families put their heads together and draw up a list of what can and can’t be flushed?” I reasoned.

Banned substances now include floss, cotton buds, matches, cigarette ends and “ladies things”, which I don’t like to ask but presume are cosmetics. Some didn’t need to be submitted. “Barbie,” recited the chief sewer swiller, clutching his list. There was a silence. “As in the doll,” he added by way of explanation.

Our other neighbour coloured, then blurted: “That was down to my daughter and I’ve spoken to her about it.”

Barbie flushed remarkably easily, apparently.

After a further uncomfortable silence, he added: “I don’t suppose, while you were furtling down that hole, you came across Ken?”