Throne Room

Our house was a self-build, so we have no-one to blame for any inadequacies except the Architect, our subcontractors, Hubby, his father, and his mother ourselves.

We made any number of small rookie mistakes. And a few larger ones. Our personal Construction Hall of Shame (I shall name no names. Actually, buggerit, I will. The Architect, for complicated reasons, got it 2ft wrong on the plan. John, despite seeing the error, and for reasons best known to himself, followed the drawings to the inch) features a bathroom that is less than 4ft wide. Sitting on the toilet, your knees brush the door. We were obliged to make it a sliding door in the end; the original split-in-hinged-halves-folding affair had a delightful inch-wide viewing window down the centre.


 This is our master bathroom, incidentally.

Plug outlets are in the wrong place, ditto light switches, kitchen cupboards, etc etc. Comforting for the ego (but not the pocket), our sub-contractors, almost without exception, were visited by the fuck-up fairy even more frequently than we were. If I ever see our Polish plumber (who flooded the entire, completely new-plastered, building and set us back weeks) on a pedestrian crossing – he’s a flat man.

But by and large, after 5 years of residency, I’ve stopped noticing the defects. However, this afternoon I became acutely aware of a new one.

Those of you owning a toddler will be aware, if you have read your user manual, that a visit to the toilet alone is a rare privilege. I usually manage to skip away for a quick pee and be on my way back, zipping up trousers en route, before Harry comes looking for me. Today, I was making a longer stay, so after a minute or so, a small companion arrived – towing the broom. He proceeded to shake it about the place in best zulu-warrior fashion, so instead of removing it I opened the toilet door wide in order to give him sea room; a broom in the eye is still better than him finding, for example, the bog brush. We have, as you know, been ill lately.

Anyhoo, I was sitting there, as you do… when I became horribly conscious of the fact that I was directly facing the back door. If it were opened – and if it were daylight – I would have a lovely view across the drive and out over the countryside. 


 Of course, if Hubby had come home early from his hockey match, then the view that would have greeted him in return, upon opening said door, would have been altogether less appealing. 


I bet he’d never bring a single unexpected friend home for dinner ever again.

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