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.

8 Responses

  1. ha ha!! you never know quite what’s wrong until you actually have reason to work it out (that didn’t make sense I know!)

  2. Ha ha ha! When we were designing our house (Architects? Ha! Who needs ’em?), our contractor (who we later fired) wanted to put the toilet in the center of our master bathroom. Like a throne – it would have been the most prominent feature. We, of some sense, prevailed and designed the bathroom so the toilet is in the far corner behind a wall. Of course, the view from the toilet is directly into the shower, so we opted for more opaque shower doors.

    I do like your view, though…catch up on the neighborhood while doing your business.

  3. I’ve PEED in that toilet! Yes I have! With the door SHUT!

    We lived in a medieval near-ruin for a while. Eventually we got sick of it leaking and had a nice new roof put on. Sort of. The architect came up to my parents one day, when the thing was half-done and all over scaffolding with nothing but plastic sheets between the bedroom floor and the wide wet sky, and said, err, (in Italian, of course), if I put the new roof on the last part of the building, it will fall down.

    What, the roof will fall down? we asked, horrified.

    No. Err. The whole house will. Sorry.

    So we put the OLD LEAKY (and clearly, very light) roof back on the last two rooms in the house and anyone who went to the loo on a rainy night had to take a bucket to balance on their head or have an impromptu shower. Factor in Diva at the toddler stage imperiously demanding to be allowed in to play with her ducky bath toys whenever any adult at all went to the loo… With added ‘and if I sneeze the walls will fall gracefully outward and the floor and ceiling will plummet and turn me into a person-on-toilet tile sandwich’.

    Architects are SILLY.

  4. Well that’s a good way to avoid unexpected company! Never have to scramble a roast again! I call that problem solved. *Dusts off hands in sprightly fashion.*

    That being said, when I was a newlywed, waaay back when Sarge was still employed by the military, I dressed up in a sexy nightie and sparkly headband in order to surprise him when he arrived home from work. Our friend had driven him home and he ALMOST invited said frined up for a snack and a drink, thereby discovering me with my girly parts on sparkly display. Whee! I never did that again. I like to support our troops but not that much, ahem.

  5. What a lovely image! I shall ensure that my Dad (who lives at the bottom of that last Malvern Hill) does not invest in a telescope.

    (May have just posted this twice internet being willful)

  6. Well, if the only reason you don’t have a view of the Malverns because it is dark outside, please do remember that with your house and toilet lights on, the Malverns will have a lovely view of you. Might even make the local “Sights Not To Miss” list for visiting tourists.

  7. My own horrible bathroom is the landlord’s fault, e.g., clawfoot tub in four-foot-wide space that thus can never be vaccumed under. Eventually we’ll just have to move, or the dustballs will eat us.

    But WHAT is that in the lower left-hand corner of the last photo? Looks much like an inverted cat butt. Maybe that says more about me than about the cat, though.

  8. We also have seen things we’d never do again, courtesy of extension building. Doors in wrong places. The master bedroom can really only have the bed in one place, otherwise you get to vault over it to get to the other part of the room. So hot.

    I love the Diet Coke on the back of the toilet.

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