Grappling with the new loo seat put me in mind of the time my husband and I employed our first plumber. This is going back years. We moved into our first property, with three month old son, and busied ourselves tinkering with the decoration. In truth the house really needed gutting.
The previous owners had managed, via a council grant, which you could get in those days for essential building preservation, rebuilt the back of the house. So a small downstairs cloakroom, complete with yellow ware, and twee taps, was one of only two inhabitable rooms.
With his usual vim and vigour, my husband decided the first job to tackle was to change the taps and fix something minor to the lavatory cistern in said cloakroom.
I think the plumber was randomly chosen from the local directory. Soon after his arrival, and inspecting the job, he went off to the local Travis Perkins, 10 minutes walk away, to return two hours later, rather inebriated.
He spent the best part of the next three hours asleep on the floor, occasionally rousing and clanking some tools, as though industriously attending to plumbing duties.
Being a naive new homemaker, I didn't quite know how to handle this situation. I was on my own with baby, as husband was at work. I was becoming increasingly desperate to get rid of Jim. He kept on saying things like, won't be much longer now Mrs M.
I called my mum, who came straight over. She tried to take control. John said, again, I won't be long, problem is Mrs P, excuse my French, but I can't get this nut undone.
Anyway, fitting a new loo seat or similar almost always evokes fond memories of Jim.
