All Bern Morely wants is some alone time. Even if it’s in the smallest room in the house. But the thing is, when she gets it, she doesn’t want it anymore…
I am writing here today about the sad loss I have suffered recently. Something I held very dear to my heart and that has been rudely taken away from me by the people who I love the most.
That something, is my alone time. In particular, my alone time, if you know what I mean. Still not catching my drift?
MY QUIET TIME ON THE LOO, that’s what I miss the most.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, going to the toilet gave either myself or my husband, basically carte blanche to spend as much time in there as we wanted. I vividly remember the days when I would see him desperately trying to scope out something to read and thinking to myself, oh bless, I won’t be seeing him for the next 30 minutes.
But then we had children and for some inexplicable reason, moved into a house with only one toilet. Look, I’m not particularly good at maths, but even I know that 5 into 1 does not go.
Even if I did manage to secure the holy throne, it was like all three children developed some kind of special built-in radar that activated their dire need to poo or ask me a question, the minute my bum hit that seat.
It got to the point where I seriously considered setting up a ticketing system like the ones they have in the Deli at the supermarket. But then again, this wouldn’t work. When you gotta go, you gotta go and I’m sad to say, our shower copped it more than once.
My biggest mistake was thinking that when we moved into a place with a second toilet that I would find my sanctuary once again. But no. It’s like there is an open-all-hours sign plastered to my forehead and a flickering 'Open for Inspection' sign hung above the toilet door when I enter.
To be honest, the only time I have to myself these days is the 15-minute drive into work. Who would have thought that getting stuck in traffic would actually be a highlight?
It starts from the moment I wake up when the cat attempts to use my leg as an actual scratching post while as I sit on the toilet. This is also the time my 7-year-old bounds out of his room to tell me he needs a “hot Milo”. Like now.