A Row about Toilet Paper

'I could really murder a fishfinger sandwich.  A doubler with plenty salad cream and red sauce.  But we don't have any, and is it worth risking getting the virus to go out and get them?  I wonder...'
'People are bastards.'  My nephew Tuppence interrupted me as he attempted to throw his leg over the arm of the shabby leather armchair in which he lounged.
Isn't that a strange expression though?  To 'throw one's leg over the arm of a chair'.  Accurate if one can unbuckle and remove one's prosthetic leg (wooden, or Long John Silver-style 'peg', were I forced to choose) and chuck it over the arm of one's chair with (or indeed without) reckless abandon, perhaps smashing a glass-fronted bookcase or knocking over a vase in so doing.  Otherwise, it's a bit weird.
Tuppence doesn't have a prosthetic leg. And, because his legs are very short, his effort at 'throwing one over' failed, and failed abysmally.  He sat forward and put his head in his hands.
'Some people are best avoided Tuppence, we all know that.'
'They've bought up all the toilet roll and eggs in Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre.   There isn't a carton of milk to be found either and there's no pasta.  Don't even mention hand sanitiser.  They've stripped the place bare. Bastards.'
'We don't need any of these things Tuppence.  Stop worrying.  We're doing a raid on the tunnels tonight under cover of darkness and we're going to get a few crates of tinned ham, some baccy and a couple of barrels of Madeira.  That'll keep us going till the virus disappears.'
'What about the toilet roll and hand sanitiser?'
'Since when did we wipe our bottoms?  We're sheep Tuppence, in case you'd forgotten.  We just do it where we stand. And as for hand sanitiser, the only thing to do with that is distill the alcohol out of it and drink it with a nice slug of methylated spirits.'
'Val Nark's been making her own organic hand sanitiser and flogging it online.  She says since there aren't any guests in the yurt and the airbnb she has to earn a crust somehow.'
'What's it made of?  surely she hasn't wasted anything alcoholic.'
'Nettles steeped in her and Dave's wee then sieved through tights.  Dave has a Youtube channel where he posts his otter vids and that and he posted one of her making the hand sanitiser. It's had thousands of views.   He gets advertising revenue off it.'
'Advertising revenue!  That's munny talk Tuppence, and munny talk is dirty talk.  Which we never indulge in.'
'In which we never indulge Uncle Tuppy.'
'Correct.  I know times are tough but we won't stoop to munny-making.  Thieving is the way forward Tuppence.  And tonight's the night.  Fetch the balaclavas and the night vision goggles.  I'll stoke the fire up so people will think we're in. '
'You're on your own Uncle.  I refuse to join in with your selfish, individualistic and frankly criminal behaviour. It's not just us that needs stuff.  It's the old.  The sick.  The vulnerable.  And by the way - since I started going out with Alexa, I've started wiping my bottom.  With toilet paper.  So there.'
'I'M old sick and vulnerable, and as long as there's breath in my body I'll go out on the rob and sod anyone else except me and Geoffrey.  You wipe your bottom as much as you like Tuppence.  I've got better things to do.'

next time - Tuppence makes a charity single

Low-hanging fruit, ripe for the taking

'You didn't seriously think that I was going to clean toilets as a so-called career?' sneered Tuppence, slamming a 28p bottle of Tesco 'thin' 'value' bleach onto the table before peeling off a pair of Marigolds and pinging them into the fire, where they melted onto a piece of charred driftwood (which had once formed the keel of our old coracle) before blazing up the chimney in a terrific tower of hissing sparks.  'Gosh what a relief.  Those Marigolds were far too big, and they were smalls.  You'd think they'd make a tiny.  There are lots of people with tiny hands these days, or so they tell me up at the yurts. So there's got to be a demand, it isn't only me.  If they don't fit properly they let in all the chemicals and toilet muck and germs and stuff, it's a total health hazard.  Val agrees with me but there's nothing she can do.'
'Anyway Tuppence.  You're digressing.  Not that it matters much, if indeed at all.'  What on earth has he come to, I thought.  From would-be prog (Canterbury school) aficionado, to arch-criminal, to bomber pilot, to submariner*, to THIS - a pathetic, whingeing wage-slave, fretting over his rubber gloves.  Not that you could call £3.50 an hour a wage.  Not that I knew much about wages.  I'd never worked a day in my life.   'Work is an alien concept to me, Tuppence.  As it should be to you. I can't understand - '
'Shut up Uncle Tuppy. Think!  for a change.   Don't you realise what I have access to, as a so-called humble toilet cleaner?'
'Modern apprentice so-called humble toilet cleaner.'
'Handbags.  Purses.  Bankcards.  Prescription drugs.  Low-hanging fruit, ripe for the taking.' Tuppence strode round the room, waving his arms expansively.
'Petty theft. Small beer hardly worth the candle.   Added to which,  they're going to know it's you within about five seconds. You'll get CAUGHT.   I'm disappointed in you Tuppence.  This isn't a nefarious plan - this is just pathetic and I have to say, very unlike you.  Are you ill or something?'
'If I am you can blame the rubber gloves.  Now that you mention it I am feeling a bit dodgy in the bottom end tummy department.'
'GEOFFREY!  fetch the medical chest.'  Bottom end tummies?  More like brain fever, I thought.  He'd have to sweat it out.


More later.
     


*all written down in the Seapenguin books, so it must be true

Edge-y

'Today I'm gonna kill the bear!' shrilled Tuppence.
'Say it again,' yelled Val Nark.
'TODAY I'M GONNA KILL THE BEAR!' he shrieked.
'And again,' commanded Val, who was sitting cross-legged on a pile of rag rugs she'd brought back from a wildlife slash hiking holiday in Kerala.
'TODAY I'M GONNA KILL THE BEAR!!!'
'Excellent work Tuppence.  Now - at home, unpaid, in your own time mind, because this is training - '
'Is it optional, then?' asked Tuppence.
'No, no, it's mandatory.'
'Then surely - '
'No. Stop interrupting or you'll lose your job.  As I was saying - at home, in your own time, file the end of that plunger into a sharp point.  Weaponise it.  Hone it the way you've been honing your toilet cleaning skills.  You're sending yourself a vital message, remember,  and it could propel you on to a whole different level. YOU ARE IN CONTROL.  YOU CAN DO ANYTHING.  You could even win modern apprentice of the month, Tuppence, as well as being allowed to clean out the Portaloos at the building site all on your own.'
'Wot?' murmured Tuppence.
'Yes!' Val continued blithely, 'Imagine that!   Yes, as well as our thriving (-ish) yurt business, Dave and I now have the cleaning contract for the building site Portaloos.  This will be announced in our newsletter but I'm telling you first because you're the one who'll be doing the cleaning. We'll need a picture of you, of course, a lovely smiley one of you outside the Portaloos clutching your plunger.  You'll be doing one hour extra a week, Fridays, hosing them down.  Dave and I managed to undercut everybody else to win the contract, because we have YOU working for us for £3.50 an hour. You'll have to find a hose yourself mind. And because this is over and above your contracted hours you won't get paid. But remember - '

Later - down in the tunnels.  Tuppence is on his own, sitting on a barrel of Madeira, deep in thought, absently whittling at the end of his plunger with a pen-knife.
'If I got enough of these I could make a deadfall,' he murmured. 'Might come in handy one day...Weaponise, is it. Honed, is it. Finding a hose, is it.  Val clearly doesn't know about my brace of pistols and my bandolier of ammunition, and my habit of writing my initials on walls with uncanny accuracy in a hail of bullets. Neither does she know about my past history of arch-criminal activity and my facility for devising nefarious plans*.  I'm not going to be a modern apprentice toilet cleaner for £3.50 an hour, minus training time, for a moment longer.  No!  I thought I could stick it out till Christmas in order to glean more info. for my own evil purposes, but no, I can figure out other ways to do that.  Enough's enough.'

Next time - Tuppence begins to enact his nefarious plans - and Val Nark rues the day she hired him.

*please see e-books and paperbacks for details

'

Hard graft for peanuts

'I explained to Val Nark that I didn't like being a modern apprentice toilet cleaner for £3.50 an hour.  What more can I learn, I said, once I know how to bleach and clean the U-bend?'
'I don't know,' I replied, unable to suppress a hint of pride. 'I've never cleaned a toilet in my life.'
'Val says there's all sorts to know about toilets though,' continued Tuppence. 'Starting with Thomas Crapper and moving right through'Shanks' to Dave Nark's chemical-free portaloo.'
'Oh yeah.'
'Yes.  The 'Nark' is basically an old-fashioned metal incinerator filled with straw or crumpled newspaper, with a seated compartment fitted inside.  Once the straw has reached maximum soil slash urine-saturation-point, or when the smell gets too bad, whichever  happens first, you set fire to it.  And then the whole cycle can start again.  One hundred per cent hygienic, no nasty 'compost pits' to dig, and no cleaning or harsh chemicals involved at any point.'
'Hey flaming presto.'
'Exactly Uncle Tuppy.  Isn't it wonderful?'
'Who knew.  You sound quite keen on the modern apprentice toilet cleaning and I've got to admit I'm disappointed in you, Tuppence.  In fact, I'm not just disappointed, I'm shocked, and I'll have to have a wee lie down.  Nobody in this family has ever, ever done hard graft for peanuts (or indeed anything) and I really think you're letting the side down.'  I folded my arms and glared at him sternly. 'We don't do cleaning and we don't do work.  I told you not to accept Val's modern apprenticeship offer, but would you listen? No you would not, and look where it's got you.  Thinking everything's rosy in the toilet world and accepting a pittance of £3.50 an hour.  Where's your pride Tuppence?  It's not like you've got a mortgage to pay.  You've got a roof over your head haven't you?  Food in your belly? I don't understand why you're even bothering.  You've gone right off piste Tuppence and I don't want to be controlling your life or anything but I don't like it and I have to tell you, it's unlikely to end well.'
'I've got plans Uncle Tuppy. Never fear.' Tuppence winked and tapped the side of his nose. 'And you know that when I do plans, I do 'em big.  There's more than £3.50 an hour and a roll of Andrex to be found in toilets, you mark my words.'
Whatever could he mean?

next time - Tuppence starts his own mobile lavatory cleaning business with a Raleigh pushbike, a plunger, a bottle of bleach (and is denied Universal Credit due to not reaching the low earnings threshold).  All is not what it seems, however.


'

Plan of toilet, as used by the late Stinking Maggie

I have omitted to draw the hook for hanging the wiping rags on.  This is because it is on the back of the door (not shown).