On toilet seat HELL

On toilet seat HELL

This is my story and I'm sticking to it.

You see, one of the plastic toilet seats at work cracked in two.

Or, if you're like that: 'crack'd in twain'.

Desperate, all the other stalls occupied, and willing to take a risk, I decided to go for it on the bog with the broken seat.

So: I was sitting there with the Guardian Sports section, unloading last night's corn-on-the-cob, and I felt myself sliding ever-so-slightly forward.

At the exact moment when I feared I might fall off the front of the crapper and do myself a hideous facial injury of the type people only ever seem to get from falling off bathroom appliances, I lifted my right buttock a little with the view to repositioning myself safely back on the seat.

CLAP!

The sound of the toilet seat snapping back into shape, biting a lump out of my backside.

"Outspan and AAARGH!" I said in surprise and alarm, fleeing from the cubicle of doom, modestly barely intact.

All forgotten until the weekend, when I am undressing for bed.

"Darling," asks the Fragrant Mrs Duck, "Why have you got a love bite on your arse?"

"Err... it's not what you think."

Sofa.