Intro

Look, look," says my partner, brandishing something that's just come in the post: a reissue of his punk band's album, recorded 25 years ago. There he is on the cover, pre-kids, pre-Flymo lawnmower, looking about eight. He wants to play it, to assess whether they were really any good. But there's no time. The CD's arrival coincides with our exciting jaunt to Glasgow to purchase a new toilet.

"Swansea, Basildon, Aberdeen," he reminisces, as we arrive in Springburn where, according to yell.com, there lurks a purveyor of fine bathroom equipment. "Electrocuted myself in Exeter," he says. "Touched the mic with my lip - was blown off my feet. I could have died."

No one appears to be listening. Our sons have already decided that "bathrooms are boring", and are amusing themselves by booting the back of the driver's seat. As navigator, I am trying to make sense of the bathroom man's directions, and frantically search for a large sign saying something like: "Get Your Sanitaryware Here."

It's hard to drum up enthusiasm for the day's activity. Doing up one's house has its positive side - like having a skip in the garden, providing ample play opportunities with slabs of cracked plasterboard and rusty nails.

However, the toilet aspect lacks a certain pizzazz. We arrive at a small industrial estate - the kind of place where it's always drizzling, and you expect Terry from Minder to emerge from a garage, loading knocked-off goods into a van.

My partner is discussing the dynamics between the three band members. He uses words like raw and passionate and is failing to pay attention to the many toilets on offer. There is, I admit, little to distinguish one bog from another. Even the brochure descriptions - the straight lines and bold curves of the Sydney range, or, modern and dynamic Menorca are not causing my credit card to vibrate. My sons are unimpressed when I point out a lavvy that can be turned into a bidet and possesses a removable ring for easy cleaning. "I must re- string my guitar," says my partner. "Has anyone seen my plectrum lately?"

By now, it has become clear that I am responsible for the purchasing of this toilet, with zero help from anyone. When buying a new bed, you would at least lie on it and test its bouncability - but how to try out a loo? You can't do anything in it, obviously. Sitting on the pan feels ridiculous in a bathroom showroom, even if you keep your trousers on.

My partner has resorted to the tactics beloved of man-outside-Gap- changing-room and says, "Yes, I like that," repeatedly. Alas: my daughter's tolerance has run out. No longer enthralled by the whizzy knobs and levers of the shower mechanisms, she reminds us that her second birthday is just around the corner by flinging herself on to the floor, and tipping out the crumpled fag packets from my bag.

Here we become a salesman's dream, and obediently buy the model recommended by the bathroom man. Curiously, we find ourselves taking home a tap we don't need, agreeing that its gleaming curves are, indeed, pretty sexy. Business done, my partner is allowed nine minutes of unadulterated fun in Virgin Megastore. He emerges clutching Q magazine, announcing, "We're in it. They've given us a three-star review."

Copyright 2002
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