"You never smile"
That is what was said to me last night. "You never smile," she said, after waking me up at two in the morning to tell me that she'd broken the toilet and it wouldn't be fixed for days.
For some reason, possibly due to having been awake for a total of three minutes when this information was presented to me, I assumed that the thing was blocked. So when I walked down the hall and felt an atrociously squishy carpet underfoot, to say I felt nauseated was perhaps an understatement. A minute later, now with footwear, I noticed that my horror was misplaced. I had not trodden in carpet soaked with the fetid water from a blocked-up toilet. I had, in fact, trodden in carpet soaked in clean water that should have been in the cistern.
If the word escapes you for the moment, the cistern is the big blocky thing situated behind the seat. Its function is to store the water needed for the flush. This one is split from top to bottom, dry as a bone since the water inside spilled out all over the floor.
I have to admit, I was impressed. I'm not entirely sure what the Hell either of my flatmates could have been doing in there to essentially shatter the thing, but I know from experience that it takes a lot of force. (Being the most physically able member of my immediate family who doesn't have a bad back, I am called upon to do a lot of grunt work.)
This isn't the first time they've managed to screw with the plumbing - they've blocked up the sink and managed to remove the toilet's seat before - but the first time it's looked like it took a crowbar to do the job. I'm not actually that angry about it, for some reason, which is in fact slightly irritating because it's very inconvenient and liable to disrupt my entire weekend and then some.
I have a little more to update about, concerning other interesting happenings, but I think that the day the toilet died is worthy of a little entry all of its own.
For some reason, possibly due to having been awake for a total of three minutes when this information was presented to me, I assumed that the thing was blocked. So when I walked down the hall and felt an atrociously squishy carpet underfoot, to say I felt nauseated was perhaps an understatement. A minute later, now with footwear, I noticed that my horror was misplaced. I had not trodden in carpet soaked with the fetid water from a blocked-up toilet. I had, in fact, trodden in carpet soaked in clean water that should have been in the cistern.
If the word escapes you for the moment, the cistern is the big blocky thing situated behind the seat. Its function is to store the water needed for the flush. This one is split from top to bottom, dry as a bone since the water inside spilled out all over the floor.
I have to admit, I was impressed. I'm not entirely sure what the Hell either of my flatmates could have been doing in there to essentially shatter the thing, but I know from experience that it takes a lot of force. (Being the most physically able member of my immediate family who doesn't have a bad back, I am called upon to do a lot of grunt work.)
This isn't the first time they've managed to screw with the plumbing - they've blocked up the sink and managed to remove the toilet's seat before - but the first time it's looked like it took a crowbar to do the job. I'm not actually that angry about it, for some reason, which is in fact slightly irritating because it's very inconvenient and liable to disrupt my entire weekend and then some.
I have a little more to update about, concerning other interesting happenings, but I think that the day the toilet died is worthy of a little entry all of its own.