What was he doing in the bath for the Old Bill to call?

The economy is picking up – and that’s official. Apparently, the new way that analysts check whether people are doing well financially is checking what they do in the bathroom. Specifically, it’s about which loo paper they buy. Makes perfect sense to me.

The loo rolls are in the furthest aisle from the door in most supermarkets and after you’ve picked up a trolleyful of luxury pizzas, curry sauces and must-haves like Pinot Noir then you may be wondering if you have enough in your account for the over-priced quilted stuff that smells very nice indeed.

Then you wonder why buy it anyway because it is far more likely to bung up your drains and then you will have to call a plumber out and they are not cheap and … well, I could go on. However, if you know that there you have enough in the bank to hire a big, strapping man to come and stick a rod down your drain then you will get the luxury one because it is so lovely and soft when you, you know, er, blow your nose.

David Cameron suggested he’s getting a wee bit fed up of being Prime Minister and will stand down, just as long as he gets voted in in May. So we may all decide that we should think about spending a few bob more in case he’s right about all that austerity being behind us.

Talking of what goes on in bathrooms, when the forces of law and order are diverted from their important tasks, such as pointing speed guns the way of unfortunate motorists, we should know why. So when I heard police were called to a house in Stornoway last week, I fretted.

A friend lives at that address and he’s at a very funny stage just now. Having showed no signs of joining the Free Church, he is certainly now at an age when it is fashionable in these parts to do just that. Yet he is so happy he sings wherever he goes. That’s a worry.

When someone goes around with a big grin from ear to ear, you can’t help but wonder what they’ve been up to. When Mrs X and I were all lovey-dovey back in the day, she warned me not to smile so much stravaiging down the street in case anyone figured out why. Obh obh, heaven knows I’m miserable now.

Just a joke. Didn’t mean that. At all. Hi, hon. Love you – and all that sklooshy stuff.

After the officers had proceeded from the locus in a westerly direction I rushed round. Himself insisted there was no problem. There would be no further police action. He didn’t want to explain why the plod had grilled him in his dressing gown – not to some guy who writes for a newspaper anyway.

The good news, concerned reader, is that after extensive enquiries, I discovered why the police acted promptly. Neighbours had reported that someone was getting a doing. Horrific sounds emanating from the house suggested that either someone was being thrashed or a clowder of cacophonous cats was being strangled.  bath

Had the doors not already been ajar, the law would undoubtedly have booted them into firewood as they rushed to potentially halt a homicide. “Hullo, control. No sign of the householder. We are going in.” Darting from room to room, they eventually realised the shrieks were coming from the loo, so in they boldly barged. And there they found the cove – singing in the bath.

Singing is a word I use here both lightly and carelessly. Neither tuneful, rhythmic nor in any way melodic, what was emerging must have sounded like the inside of our henhouse the night that wild mink got in. The alarmed neighbours had taken took no chances and rightfully called the Old Bill. Yet it actually was He Who Must Not be Named warbling loudly and probably using his loofah as a makeshift guitar.

He admits to trashing Hotel California, being Born In The USA but, despite reports of high-pitched screeches, strenously denies making a mockery of anything which may originally have sounded like Kate Bush. Yeah right. The neighbours must really have heard real cats then.

People do the strangest things in the bath. A lady of a certain age was apparently reading that Queen Elizabeth I and, of course, Cleopatra used to bath in milk to make themselves beautiful.

So she rushed off to Tesco and told the manager she wanted 40 gallons of milk delivered. He was amazed but agreed. Did she want it pasteurised, he wondered. She replied: “Oh no, a ghraidh. Just past my neck will be fine.”

One Response

  1. Guga March 26, 2015

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