A Quiet Poo

There’s a button on my toilet. A secret switch, if you like. It’s present on most toilets, actually, but is only activated if certain factors collide and align the settings.

The button on my toilet is linked to a chip in my children’s brains. When all the factors collide, radio signals are sent to that chip,and the child responds with a pre-programmed action that must be inherited and not learned.

Mum (and only when Mum) sits on the toilet and plans to take little comfort break. Mum shuts the door. Mum sighs as she relishes the prospect of three minutes to herself. Her weight presses down onto the loo seat, thus completing the necessary circuit, and then the toilet is activated into sending out the aforementioned, silent but deadly radio waves.

Within seconds, there is a reaction in the house beyond. Mum can hear movement, she can sense an approach. Pitter, pitter patter. Thud, thud, thud. Bang, bang, bang. The door handle is tried. Mum grasps it, resisting the attempt at forced entry. Mum tries to stay quiet, to pretend she’s not there, but the simple fact of her holding on to the wiggling door handle belies her, and she is discovered. At this point – if not before – those pesky radio signals have initiated several vocal responses, all them similar, but varying in intensity. “Mum?” “Muuuum?” “MUUUUUM!”

At which point, Mum knows she’s been caught. Mum shouts too now – probably belts out an expletive as she passionately laments her lot, as she’s busted trying to wee in peace, or maybe even attempting a Number Two without the usual strained rush – the kind we were warned against as kids but now do anyway because someone is usually shouting at us, or trying to kill a sibling, right at the crucial point when we should be taking it slowly. I think we may all be resigned to some form of haemorrhoid in the future now anyway. So that ship has sailed. Sitting on cold floor does not give you piles. Kids do.

The Secret Button Radio Signal is so clever that it can even rouse children, who had been sitting, prostrate in front of a TV, into a state of action – but of course only when Mum’s bottom hits the pan – and only the kind of action that is REALLY, REALLY DANGEROUS! Only when she sits on the throne will Mum’s children wield knives and scissors at each other. Only when she tries to go to the loo in peace will they suddenly turn into kick boxers with a leg jab to rival Jean-Claude Van Damme, and the strength to knock out teeth.

It’s miraculous, actually.

My children are not babies any more.The Four Little Seymours are old enough to know better, but oh my goodness, do they pick their moments! As soon as I shut myself in a little room, they need me. Apparently.

Lockdown hasn’t helped, I suppose. If we analyse it, the buggers have been home since March the flippin’ 20th…

I love them with all my heart, but I’d just like a quiet poo.

(This might be the answer…)