our shitter exploded

This isn't a riding crop. It's a coil to dislodge coil.

First domestic disaster.

And because I find toilet humour irresistible - it just never gets old - I'm crying with laughter as I write this.

Dude. Our toilet exploded.

Nothing - NOTHING - is funnier than jokes about human by-product.

I get back from a hen's weekend in Dorset (that's another post), and the Brit uttered the words that Romeo and Juliet didn't mention in their love story:

Babe. The toilet's blocked.

Dude.

Someone had a food baby in there. And it wasn't me, because I don't pooh.

The Brit has been plunging; I've been giggling.

I'm not going in there because I will projectile vomit on all four walls of our bathroom.

And they say the romance dies when you move in together. This simply isn't so, when you're laughing about shit and u-bends.

Everytime I burst into giggles, he reckons, "You're laughing about the blocked toilet again. Give it a rest Peas."

"But you have to buy one of those long Plumber's Friend snake things."

"Yes."

"BWAAAAAA. How are you going to carry it on the train baba?"

"I'm not. I'll drive to B&Q"

"BWAAAAAAAA! It wasn't me."

"I'm starting to think it was."

"Not a chance, I don't...lay coils."

Then last night:

"Babe, what happens if YOU need...to pooh?"

Brit: Do we really have to talk about this. Again?

Peas: Well, it's going to be a bit of an issue if you need to.

Brit: I guess I'll have to go...out the window like in Victorian times.

Peas: BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
..............................

It's just not getting old.

But to be fair, it does need to be fixed.

Shotgun not.