Pollyism of the week

As a woman living semi-alone, I am doing things for the first time. I have sons but they are Millennials. Enough said? The things I am doing are things I have previously avoided and I admit I have been utterly sexist about. But last night was the living end, I tell you, the living end.

I’m not sure there’s any feeling worse than flushing the loo and then watching the water rise. You stare down into the abyss for several minutes, willing the water to start gurgling, chugging and then joyfully circling down, down, down.

But all I got was water rising. “Hmmm ...” I thought. “What next, eh?”

Naturally, another flush seemed an entirely brilliant scheme. I mean, maybe it was just a tiny blockage that needed to be gently guided on its way down to the poopie factory.

I flushed and the murky water rose dangerously close to crisis-flood level.

I stopped. I swore. I wondered what the pasthusband and others have done? Aha! The plunger. Do we have a plunger? We must have a plunger. And so I searched the bathroom, the kitchen and eventually the garage, which to be candid is more like a three-walled concrete box with no roof.

The garage is wet, dark and probably haunted by the souls of countless neglected garden tools. I was just about to give up thanks to a lack of light and lack of interest when I saw the plunger sitting on a shelf. I grabbed the weird implement and returned to my bathroom, which looked even worse than when I’d left it.

Having only heard the plunger in operation before, I realised I would have to pretend I knew how to use it. I put it in the toilet bowl and began to plunge. Things began to happen. Not in a great way. It was like I’d disturbed hell.

I then remembered it’s a slow and icky process, judging by the swearing that generally accompanied the plunging by the male. It was quite a moment when I somehow managed to invert the plunger and somehow get it stuck down the pipe, but eventually … progress. The lagoon began to empty. I was excited. The excitement had me gather strength. I plunged harder. Oops!

So vigorous and exuberant was my plunging, I was like a toddler splashing in a paddling pool. It was at that moment a large splash hit my glasses and my chin. I squealed and reached for the hand sanitiser, still squealing.

The point is, I did it. Not only have I mown lawns and weed-eaten, but I’m like a freakin’ plumber now.

The halogens in my six-metre high bathroom ceiling are all out. Going for a shower is somewhere between sexy and terrifying. I will need a large ladder and halogen lightbulbs. Get an electrician? Great idea!