There was an urban legend at my school about a kid who, on sitting his final exams, realised that he hadn't done enough revision and didn't know any of the answers. In a moment of stress fuelled panic he killed himself by sticking the sharp end of a pencil up each nostril and slamming his face down on the desk so that the pencils rammed into his brain.
Even as a gullible twelve year old this story sounded like bullshit to me - nobody could ever feel so miserable about anything that they'd choose to end their life like that. But that was before I'd ever endured the process of buying a new bathroom with a woman.
The bathroom is the last part of our house that needs to be updated before it's all finished. I do not care about bathrooms, they are places where I spend relatively little time and consequently I give not one solitary fuck about the décor. As long as water comes out of the places it's supposed to come out of and stays in the places it's supposed to stay in, and as long as the toilet efficiently removes whatever I choose to deposit in it, then I am happy.
My beloved refuses to believe that I have no further interest in the matter, and has badgered me for weeks with brochures from bathroom designers, insisting that I express an opinion on things like mirrored cabinets, towel rails and taps. I do not spend all fucking week whoring my soul to Mammon just so I can waste my spare time pretending to give the faintest whiff of a shit about taps.
You've heard the phrase "bored to tears" - that's literally how I feel about taps. After she'd made me look at pictures of taps for thirty minutes and demanded to know which ones I like best and, worse yet, to justify my selection, I wanted to break down crying on the floor, curled into the foetal position. I have no opinion on taps, none whatsoever, taps can go fuck themselves with a garden rake. You might as well ask me what my preferred brand of tampons is.
I don't understand what's going on here. Wife knows that she can have whatever bathroom she likes and I will sign the cheque without asking any questions about her choices - surely that's the ideal situation for most women? Why must I have my life ruined by endless conversations about things like tiles?
That brings me onto the next problem - the floor tiles. We are having the same tiles on the floor as on the walls. You might think, as I did, that would be a bit slippery, but the tiles are porcelain instead of whatever the hell tiles are normally made from, and porcelain tiles are not slippery when wet because of reasons or science or something.
I know, I didn't believe it either - but we've got a big sample tile in the bathroom at the moment so I made a point of standing on it when I got out of the shower to test it and it honestly isn't at all slippery. We had a bunch of friends round for dinner last night and they were just as incredulous, which is how a perfectly civilised dinner party ended up with six drunk adults stood barefoot in the garden at 11pm, pouring water onto a porcelain tile and trying their best to slip over on it.
Anyway, it turns out that I couldn't have the only thing I actually cared about in the bathroom - one of those mirrors that doesn't get steamed up, in the shower, so I can shave while I'm showering. Apparently those things need electricity to work and the building regulations say you can't have electrical appliances in the shower. Bastards.