“DAAAAAD!! The toilet’s flooding and the garage is full of poo!!”
“Sorry what was that David? What’s poo?”
“THERE’S F*CKING SH*T EVERYWHERE!”
That right there is how my Christmas Day started.
My family and I go home to Tasmania for Christmas every year, and this year was no exception.
Brothers and sister, uncles and aunties, second cousins and in-laws come from around Australia to squish into my Pop’s old, red brick two-storey house. It’s really quite lovely.
Well, it would be if we were normal. Sane, even. But we’re not, hence why you’re here reading about how my Christmas Day was unequivocally worse than yours.
So, back to the garage full of sh*t.
It all started at 3am when my dad got up to use the loo. Being the considerate person he is, dad decided to use the downstairs bathroom so as not to wake anyone up. Only when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he felt something… moist underfoot on the garage floor. By underfoot, I mean his BARE FEET.
Then came the yelling.
Turns out Pop’s decades old plumbing was not at all up to the task of facilitating everyone’s, erm, waste. Having not one, but TWO irritable bowel sufferers who ate three kilos of cherries in one sitting (handy hint – don’t eat three kilos of cherries in one sitting) in the house didn’t help.
Sadly, the plumber was enjoying a lovely Christmas breakfast with his family and couldn't make it out to unblock the situation until 10:30am, leaving us with no choice but to trek it to the neighbours every time nature called.
And when the plumber finally did show up, it took him all of three seconds to shove a plunger in there and fix the problem, which he described as a 'women's issue' because of the excess toilet paper stuck in the pipes. That wisdom set Pop back $500.