In that time I've had all sorts of nonsense happen, including my orchestration of Carcass' return to UK soil and having a builder round...
Now, the latter may seem like a non-event, but the man left a grave impression on me. In fact, short of tying me up and silencing my screams as he bummed me against a wall, a visit from the builder actually couldn't be any worse.
In short, we had a leaky roof. Chap had been out and after a look up his ladders and a Saturday of banging noises disturbing my mum from her Dallas DVDs, the guy declared he'd solved the problem. My auld man squared up with him and off he went.
You can imagine our surprise when the leak continued despite being several hundred pounds in repairs poorer. Quick on the phone, my dad arranged a day and time and as I was off my work that morning, it was left to me to deal with the guy.
Back up his ladders, another morning of banging and my usual inhospitable treatment, namely not offering a cup of tea in the British tradition. My missus takes issue with this but as I explained last week when the gas man was out - If you like tea and don't have the initiative to bring a flask with you, tough luck I say. I believe my exact words were; "I'm not his mum."
"That should be you, son. I've sealed the lead flashing and that should be enough to stop it. Before I go, is it alright if I use the toilet?"
Bringing a flask will be as much a requisite as bringing your own portaloo for any future builders, let me tell you.
After an unusually long time, the guy reappears and with a "Thanks" he takes his white van and naffs off. Glad to have the house to myself so I can laze about doing nothing in peace, I close the door and... wonder what that UNGODLY smell is?!
Wow. What I thought was my builder spending a quick penny was obviously a grubby old man doing a big sit-down poo. No wonder he took so long. Doesn't this break some strangers code? A slash is fine but surely a shit is out of bounds? Of course I wouldn't have OK'd it if I'd known he was dropping some kids off. Two fingers up the nose still isn't enough as I scramble to light a candle and retreat like this is a World War II frontline.
I need a few hours just to recover.
Much later all's well, I've had a good lunch and the candle I note upon return to the scene of the crime, is all burned out. There's no smell, but I do now notice some dirt marks on the floor. He's trailed something in - talk about crossing a line. The stuff won't shift, and so there's now a black mark on my bathroom floor. Brilliant. Could he not have cleaned this himself?
I'm mildly outraged. I sit down, ready myself for a wee jobby of my own, and ponder the state of Britain's manual labour industry. Builders running amok, pooing in people's bathrooms. Frankly, not on!
Or by way of an image, something like this:
What is this stuff on the underside of the toilet seat? There's a brown goo...
I cut my post-poo pee short as only possible in emergency situations - a lorry headed your way as you piss by the side of the road, shouts of "FIRE!" coming from outside a bathroom or the sudden realisation that a mad axe-man has just burst into your house - and jump up like I'm spring-loaded.
"Surely...not..." leaves my lips, as much to the builder himself wherever he is at this point, as to myself and the room at large.
Like inspecting a potential suitcase bomb, I cautiously lift the lid for a better look and instantly run through all the possibilites that explain this situation:
-He was eating a Nutella sandwich moments before using the toilet and some spread has transferred from his hands to the seat.
Erm... at that, I'm done. What else could it be? I'm praying to God, to Allah, to the fat elephant, that the guy is a messy fan of choc sarnies. With all my might, I'm praying. But the only way to guarantee peace of mind is to smell, and in a moment which I admit with hindsight could have been better thought through, I move in for a sniff...
As I'm stood there unsure whether to wipe my own arse first or continue with horrible job, a wad of Wet Wipes in hand, ever-so-gingerly wiping another man's faeces off my toilet seat and near crying like a mother testifying in a murder trial, I stand back every now and again and utter the words "What the fuck?" in an increasingly irate and confused tone. "WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?"
The roof has since leaked but I refuse to have that man set foot in my house again. I'd rather we actually drowned before I see him.
No wonder he can't seal a roof when he can't wipe his own arse properly. Grotty bastard.