With my toilet still knackered I procured a key from the property manager for the empty flat upstairs, all ablutive purposes taken care of but in a very makeshift way.
Not ideal for the middlenight pissings, but my ban on all drinks post 10pm have seen me through the night unwakened so far. Tom the plumber is calling tomorrow morning between the hours of 10.30am and 11.30am, so hopefully he'll have shown up by March and I can put this whole shambolic, rim-smashing episode behind me.
So, the flat upstairs.
I was always curious about it and its former inhabitant, a rather sexy Polish sort by the name of Babooshka or something. We never spoke, we'd only awkwardly gesture at the washing machine from time to time but I would have, like, given the chance.
I'd hear noises when she lived there. THOSE noises.
I'd match her thrust for thrust in the squeaking stakes, and became inventive with a stash of helium to maintain the illusion, once my singlehood was redeemed. I assumed her bed was situated directly over mine, a similar lay-out in her flat to my own, the lack of sound-proofing the window to wonderings about how long she could go on and on and on...
She'd smoke out the window as I'd leave my flat, I'd salute and assume it was post-coital given the undulating torrents of whackery just minutes before.
Not so, it turns out, not so.
Upon receipt of the key to this newly abandoned sex den, I had a good look around and noted that the bed was situated in the corner of the living space, like the shittiest of student bedsits and nothing like my two-room palace. Her bed over my living room, yes, but a good ten metres from the spot above my head as I'd sleep.
North of my cot? The bathroom I now frequent to do my quiet business.
This has caused me to wonder, and look, and wonder again while sitting aprop her former pisspot - what the fuck was she doing with that showerhead?