I was going to do a quick post about my deafness but a much graver situation has arisen – we’re down to one light in our bathroom. Which sounds fine, but we should have six. We had our bathroom done out when we moved in, more out of necessity rather than choice since the previous occupant died in there, knocking her head on the shitter on the way down and causing a slow leak which ruined the walls (her last act of malice, bless her, she really didn’t want the gays in). We had six of those flush spotlights built into the ceiling – I like a lot of light whilst I bathe so that I can gaze upon my beauty and really soak it in. The plumber was fantastic, catering to our every whim, though he did fail to install a gloryhole through to the built-in wardrobes in our bedroom so he gets a mark down for that.
Anyway, over the course of the year, the lights have steadily been going and now the lighting is critical – when the first went, that was no problem, five was more than enough to read Viz by and even when the second one went, as long as I had enough light to differentiate between my toothpaste and Paul’s heavy-duty Preparation H cream I was fine. To be fair, Paul doesn’t have piles, though given the pressure I put on him as soon as he has to go I’m rather surprised – I’ve been known to bust out the Countdown clock if we’re watching something and he’s taking an age. Yep. Then the third light went, and at this point we decided that we really must replace them, but once we realised that would mean finding the garage key and getting the tiny stepladders out, that got forgotten about. Four went a few weeks ago, but luckily, the light above the netty remains resolute, as did the one above the bath, meaning I could still crack on with my Bill Bryson books in relative comfort.
Until tonight – we’re down to one light, and it’s the one above the toilet, which means that every time we have to go and drop the kids off we’re going to be sat in a dark room with a spotlight directly above us, illuminating us like a prize on a second-rate game-show. That won’t do! But see this is where our inherent inability to do anything especially manly comes in, because we genuinely can’t figure out how to change the bulbs. According to the Internet, we should just be able to unscrew the fitting and replace the bulb, but I’ve tried with all five, and none of them can be moved one jot. Part of me is anxious that we’re going to have to go in the loft and replace them from up there – surely not though? Going into the loft causes incredible anxiety in this house, not least because of the way the ladder flexes and bends (I had never heard a ladder cry out in pain until we got on it) and the beams creak underneath us.
We’re left with two options, both equally embarrassing. I can call my dad to come over and do it, but well, I feel like a tit being a 29 year old bloke and having to get his dad to effectively change a lightbulb for us. My dad would do it no problem and be entirely gracious about it, but I always feel just that little bit less masculine. The alternative is to pay someone to come and do it, but that is even worse – they’ll invariably try and talk to me about tits or football or cars and I’ll have to stand there with glazed eyes looking non-plussed. I once had a BT engineer comment on my then-flatmate’s knickers which were drying (or rather, knowing her delight in shagging every other guest she checked in at the Travelodge, they were airing out) on our hallway radiator, until I cracked a joke that they were actually my evening knickers and he spent the rest of the visit ashen-faced and scrabbling away at the junction box. We do get a lot of ‘OH SO YOU LIVE HERE WITH YOUR BROTHER DO YOU’ and then thirty minutes of awkwardness and loaded mentions of their wives/girlfriends (just so we know, see, in case the sight of a pock-marked arse sticking out of a pair of paint-covered slacks framed by a copy of the Daily Sport is going to set our loins aflame).
So what do we do? Who knows. I’m just dreading the moment that I’m using the loo and the light above goes pop, meaning I’ll be stuck in the dark until Paul comes home and hears my plaintive wailing from the bathroom, only to refuse to come in because it smells like something died. What fun!
Oh, and before anyone suggests putting a candle in there, we can’t – have you ever seen Panic Room? It’ll be just like this very moment, trust me:
Finally, remember how we’re starting Slimming World on Monday? Well we thought we deserved a little treat today after all our ills. So…
Honestly, bathroom hijinks aside, it was like heaven in my mouth.