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.
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