Uncomfortable

I sometimes still use the disabled toilet at work. I still have mobility issues and it helps to use the safety rail bar to hold on to when lowering and raising oneself.

Only I discovered to my abject horror that the disabled toilet was itself disabled when the fucker wouldn't flush post-ablution.  I scrawled a note the toilet wasn't working and stuck it on the door and I presumed that the cleaner would then organise to get it fixed. After-all, that's what happened last time.

By day three it was obvious he would not to that and that he'd simply left the stool to marinate in its own fetid broth. I went back in to try a re-flush—on the off chance the failure was a temporary one that self-corrected—and was hit in the face by a wall of warm air stink. So I emailed in a repair request and, to their credit, a plumber appeared less than 24 hours later.

The toilet was actually broken—a mechanism within had finally completely failed—and after a quick trip out for a part it was repaired within an hour. With the repair done I then took advantage of the good news to not only tell the building that it was all fixed via one of my hilarious missives that skirt good taste but to tell the cleaner as well, I interrupting his cig outside to let him know I'd called in the repair requirement and the repair had been made.

Of course at no point did I admit to him, or to the building's populace, was the fact that the former owner of the non-flushed four-days-afloat floater was myself.

There are after-all some secrets a girl has to keep to herself (tee-hee! OOOooo).