Explaining ‘lifting the seat’ to an alien.

Explaining abstract concepts to an alien is something we all should consider as a humorous concept. And once  considered, we should then discard, because someone has already done it pretty well here.  But when you come across a persistent alien, or at least homo elements, (fae by any other name) who thinks it’s funny when the toilet in the office breaks down, and demands an explanation of why you need a toilet, the humour is very definitely a one way street with you half way up it pointing the wrong way.
So, Miranda, from records, thought it would be hilarious to quiz me about toilets in general and toilet seats in particular. Why, for example, would you make a toilet seat round and with a smaller diameter than the pan when all that achieves is to act like the bulls eye on a dart board for most testosterone laden males. I did try and explain that etiquette demands that we males lift the seat when  we pass water attending up. Now Miranda is not a small person. Well she isn’t tall, but she’s carrying a few extra pounds and for pounds read hundredweight. Even so, it is frightening to see a five foot three 200 Lb woman start turning deepest aubergine from laughing so much. Okay, the fact is she isn’t really a girl, she’s a shapeshifting golgoslap from the punctrum marshes of Zaliborj, but nevertheless, it’s disconcerting. And yes, I did ask her why she’d chosen such a corpulent manifestation as her avatar and her answer was that she wanted to support all those women who had won the battle against the scourge of anorexia. I did try and explain that there is winning and there is 25 triumphant laps of honour with cup cakes and lard stops at every corner, but she would have none of it. Of course, she doesn’t need a toilet because….well let’s just say that there’s often a damp patch on the ceiling from whatever venting appendage she chooses to use when no one’s looking. very unnerving, I can tell you, even if it does smell of fresh laundry.
When she’d stopped laughing, she went on to ask why it was that the toilet bowl had to be so deep. Was it so that it allowed men to try and emulate the noise of large horse urinating on a muddy field? Being a porcelain wall painter myself, I could only shrug. By then I knew that it was pointless protesting because I, too have had the dubious pleasure of sitting in the lounge only to look up sharply, half expecting to see my wife emptying a vase of stale water into the sink, only to realise that the nose was, in fact, coming from  one of my male offspring who, without a care in the world, was voiding with the force of a small but powerful fire engine into the very liquid heart of the bowl with spattering gusto and clearly enjoying it.
I’m sure Thomas Crapper had an answer for all these sorts of questions and I’ve suggested Miranda look him up. Okay, he’s been dead since 1910, but that has never stopped Miranda before.  Meanwhile, I am reduced to ringing the plumber every ten minutes in order that I may perform my own ablutions, much to the amusement of my colleagues. But hey, that’s my lot. But I am not complaining. At lest I am gainfully employed, well employed anyway.
It takes all sorts.

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