On getting a bathroom each

On getting a bathroom each

So, the house move's OFF again. With bespectacled git Howard Brown living the Life of Riley at the expense of us, his loyal customers, the Halifax went and put up their demands for new mortgage business last week.

To whit: A requirement for a deposit of 20 per cent of the house's value to pay for Howard's bar tab and assorted fallen women. I won't mention the sum involved, but it is somewhat more than an arm, a leg and most of my vital organs. Even that one.

Short of sending him a deposit of my own (and believe me, it is proven by SCIENCE that the brown trout through the letterbox is the only language people like this understand), we are resigned to abandoning our year-long plans to move house and sit out the current banking crisis in our otherwise luxuriously-appointed beachfront property, catapulting gin-soaked bits of bread at the seagulls for top LOLs.

Unfortunately, having seen what the rest of Weymouth has to offer in our quest for alternative housing, it appears that my charming wife has developed a thing for bathrooms. Lots and lots of bathrooms, and this will be her new outlet.

As we rose on Sunday morning in our loft bedroom that cost me in blood, sweat and loads of money, she announced "I've had this brilliant idea", a phrase that usually leads somewhere incredibly expensive.

"How much will it cost?" I replied from our bathroom-with-a-sea-view as a large tanker slipped its mooring in Portland Harbour.

"Why don't we let Scaryduckling have our bedroom…"

"What? And lose our ensuite?"

"…then Scaryduck Jr can move into his sister's room…"

"Yeah, makes sense – right next to the bathroom…"

"…and we have his room."

"Right. And what's the point?"

"I haven't finished. We turn the spare room into an ensuite bathroom. For us."

"So… we end up with three bathrooms, then? With two thirds of the world unable to find access to clean water?"

"That's right," she says, and: "Sod 'em."

"But… but… we've already got two toilets as it is."

"And you still crap in the shed."

Bang to rights.

"Riiiiight," I say at length, "Riiiiiiiiiiight – but on one condition."

"What's that?"

"We get to keep the Star Wars murals in the boy's room."

"No."

"You started it."

"They've got to go." She pointed out in that tone of voice that tells me this particular lady is not for turning, "They're Phantom Menace."

She's got a point. Jar Jar's just GOT to go.

"One other thing," I ask.

"What?"

"The dog. Does she get a bathroom?"

"Eventually, yes. When we build the extension. That's my other great idea."

EXTENSION?