The Commode of DEATH - what not to do when routinely cleaning your jax at 2am

Boys and girls, gather 'round while I tell you a tale so shocking it will surely induce a severe case of toilet-cleaning-ophobia in one and all. Listen well, and learn from this tale so that hopefully the misfortune that I experienced shan't befall you aswell.

'Twas a dark night, and the moon was full (actually it wasn't, it was half full cos it was last night), anyhoo, in the grips of pregnancy insomnia, I shuffled around the apartment, hoping for some menial task to tire me out enough so I could get to sleep. I settled on cleaning the bathroom. I sprayed the shower clean stuff in the bath, and rinsed it away to leave a nice shine... still wide awake. Sprayed shower clean stuff in the sink, wiped away the toothpaste stains, cleaned the mirror...still awake. 'I know,' says I, 'I'll scrub the loo'. Now before you go thinking our bathroom is a filthy cesspit, I feel compelled to point out it was actually pretty clean already, so that's probably why cleaning the sink and bath wasn't all that taxing. Cleaning the toilet was also going to be fairly straight forward - pour in cleaner, wait a few mins, brush, flush, done - or so I thought.

I grabbed the Parazone and started applying it under the rim, and that's where the trouble started. See, there wasn't a whole lot of Parazone left, so I only got about halfway around the bowl when it ran out. Rather than have a half-clean toilet, I remembered that there was a bottle of Harpic in the cupboard, so I fetched it and applied it to the rest of the bowl, overlapping where the Parazone coverage was a bit patchy. Anyhoo, I stood back and let the cleaning commence, only it wasn't cleaning that commenced, it was a rather unpleasant chemical reaction. Firstly the places where Parazone and Harpic touched started foaming, now I'm not an expert on toilet cleaning products by any stretch of the imagination, but it struck me that this wasn't quite right. My suspicions were further confirmed by the acrid smell that was now rising from the loo. Our bathroom doesn't have windows, so the fumes got very intense very quickly. I reached over, flushed and legged it out of the bathroom and onto my balcony for some fresh air.

After much coughing and spluttering and wheezing, I figured I had enough clean air in my lungs to check the bathroom and survey any damage that might have been done. Upon opening the door however, it quickly became apparent that I'd need some sort of breathing apparatus to survive longer than ten seconds in the bathroom, the smell appeared to be getting worse! I considered my next move, and decided it was time to alert my long-suffering husband, who, after working a 7 day week, was tucked up in bed sound asleep and none the wiser to my impromptu chemistry jamboree in the loo. So in I went and shook him awake. After explaining to him that, no, I wasn't in labour, I told him what had happened in the bathroom and he assured me everything would be fine, and that the smell would go away. I doubted that assessment for several reasons; firstly he was very very sleepy and I'm not sure if he actually realised what I was talking about, secondly he hadn't actually been in the bathroom so didn't know how bad it was, and thirdly I suspected that he was telling me what I wanted to hear so that I'd go away and let him sleep. I contemplated calling the fire brigade, not that I was sure if they could actually do anything, but for some reason the thought popped into my head. I thought it might be wise, however, to go in and re-assess the situation before I got the emergency services involved.

Now in the absence of a respirator or some other similar piece of equipment, I figured that the best thing I could do was soak a facecloth, fold it over and hold it over my mouth and nose. Once more into the breech I went, with my trusty wet facecloth. I opened the lid and peered into the commode only to see that there was still quite a bit of Harpic and Parazone (henceforth to be known as Harpazone) clinging to the sides of the bowl. I could only assume that this was due to their thick, limescale removing, germ killing formulation, which they're always going on about in the adverts. There was only one thing for it, I would have to scrub it off with the toilet brush. I must admit that the prospect of this frightened me, because I'd clearly created some sort of toxic chemical here, and although it hadn't damaged the porcelain, it was quite obviously caustic (the foaming and fumes had clued me into this) and our toilet brush is plastic. I wasn't too sure how the toilet brush was going to react when it came into contact with the mixture, and I was fairly sure that burning plastic fumes would do little to alleviate the situation. After offering up a little prayer to the gods of sanitary ware, I plunged the toilet brush into the bowl and got scrubbing. Luckily, the mixture seemed to have been sufficiently diluted so as not to start melting the brush, and soon enough the sides were clear. I gave it one more flush for luck, and ran back outside, turning the extractor fan on as I went.

At this stage, thankfully, the worst was over, however it was about 6am before the bathroom was fit for human habitation again. In the intervening time, I had opened every window in the apartment, and was sitting out on the balcony calmly awaiting death, who I figured would be along sooner or later because I'd inhaled some of the toxic fumes. It was actually quite nice sitting on my balcony and watching the sun come up, drinking a cup of tea and reading a book. Luckily, death seemed to have gotten enough amusement from my plight to feel pity for me and spare me for another day. One of the worst parts about the whole thing was that there were four solid hours where I couldn't use the loo, and being nearly 9 months pregnant, this was a serious issue. At least I got through it, although my lungs and kidneys still aren't the better for it.

Interestingly enough, I was chatting to my friend this morning, and he was able to tell me what it was I'd created in my toilet - Chlorine Gas!!! Apparently it's been used as a chemical weapon and can be lethal! I think my toilet cleaning days are well and truly over, it seems that I can't be left alone to do the most menial of household tasks without creating a potentially deadly hazard. On the plus side though, the jax is absolutely immaculate, I haven't seen it this clean ever, like you could comfortably eat a meal out of it. I think on reflection though, I'd sooner have the loo slightly less pristine and still retain a set of fully functioning lungs.

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"Why Gingerbread Crutches?" you ask. Well....

.... They just happened to be two things within my line of sight when I was thinking up a name for the blog! Yeah, I know, as far as things to be just sitting around my living room, they are pretty random. Maybe I should explain how they came to be here....

Well it all started about two weekends ago, when I woke up (probably around noon, if I'm being honest) and looked out my window to see that the snow had been the night before. Wonderful! Snow and I have a bit of a love/hate relationship, in that I love how it looks, but I hate pretty much everything else about it. Actually, it would be more correct to say that I have mixed views on snow. To say that we have a relationship is simply presumptuous; I have no idea how snow feels about me.

Anyhoo, when I looked out and saw the snow, a feeling of dread came over me. It was too early for me to feel 'Christmassy', and all I was thinking was 'How the hell am I going to get to work if this isn't gone by Monday?'. Our apartment is in a complex at the base of the Dublin mountains, and you have to go up a fairly steep hill to get out. The hill is also really bendy, so basically if there's any sort of snow or ice on it, it becomes a real battle (not to mention incredibly dangerous) trying to drive out. I should also that I'm incredibly accident prone. Over the last year I've been in A&E twice, and the last time it snowed, I fell and broke my wrist, so I was not relishing the thought of having to walk to work. As the day wore on, it became increasingly obvious that the snow was not going to be gone by Monday, and seeing as venturing outside was basically taking your life into your hands, I amused myself by looking out the window and watching people with rear-wheel-drive cars trying to get up the hill.

Sunday morning dawned brighter than usual, because the light was reflecting off the chilly white stuff covering all and sundry outside. We walked to my parents' house for dinner on Sunday evening, and it was the start of things to come for the rest of the week. Before going to bed on Sunday night, I got my stuff ready for the following morning, knowing that it was going to be an early start and an unpleasant commute. As I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, I said a silent prayer to whatever deity out there was listening: "Please, please, please make the snow go away!". Alas, my days of neglecting religion seemed to have bitten me in the ass, the snow fell thick and fast all night.

Monday morning, 7am, sprang from my bed and away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash (or just opened the curtains), hoping the snow gods had answered my prayers, but seeing (for feck sake) the snow was still there. I lumbered into my snow gear (hiking boots, ski socks, tights under trousers, several layers of sweaters, coat, scarf, hat, ski gloves and backpack with work clothes in it) grabbed my homemade walking pole,  and left the house at 7.30 for the 7km trip to the office. The first day's walk was rather pleasant. The snow was actually nice and crisp outside, it was easy to walk on, and it wasn't too cold out. The only downside was it took me nearly 2 hours to get to the office, a total pain in the arse when using the car takes 20 minutes tops.

Tuesday morning was a repeat performance, only this time it was slushier and not so nice. My wonderful husband had procured me a set of Alpine Trekking Poles on his way home from college, so I had those to help me out. And it was a good thing too, because there were icy patches where I could very well have ended up on my arse in front of traffic had it not been for the poles. Of course Tuesday was the evening where I decided to be crafty and get the bus home (well, not right home, because no busses come where I live. I would be getting a bus that would drop me about 20 minutes from my apartment. At least that was the plan.). So I researched the times, and waited at the stop outside work. Now, I knew the bus might take a while, what with snow turning even the most sensible of drivers into complete maniacs or terrified noobs, but I figured it'd be more comfortable sitting in a warm vehicle rather than trekking uphill for 7km in Arctic conditions. I couldn't have been more wrong.

After 2 hours on the bus, we were told that it couldn't go any further and we'd all have to get out. This was leaving me with at least another hour's walk to get home. Trying to ring my husband to tell him this was mortifying, because I discovered, to my disgust, that trying to use an iPhone while wearing ski gloves is totally impossible. Instead, I had to type with my nose, so in trying to phone my husband, I accidentally called my Dad and both my sisters before I finally hit the right number. Hubby had bought me a pair of YakTrax on his way home from college, so he started walking to meet me halfway and put them on me. It was just as well he did, because the higher up I got, the snow just got deeper and deeper, and any places where I had to cross a road were lethal. By the time we got to our apartment the snow was almost knee deep, the roads were just lined with abandoned cars and the smell of burning gearboxes permeated the air as people tried to force their cars up a hill that provided less traction than a sheet of polished glass.

Wednesday, or as I called it, Day 3 of Snowmageddon, involved another massive trek to work. Conditions were considerably worse, and it was basically a white-out as I walked down. The only plus side was that the snow was falling so heavily that there was basically nothing on the roads, so waiting at pedestrian lights wasn't necessary. I looked like the abominable snowman when I arrived at work, I was white from head to toe! Luckily that day the roads were a bit better, and one of the girls in work dropped me halfway home, so the remaining walk only took about an hour. At this stage the snow by my apartment was over the knee.

Thursday morning (stay with me, we're nearly there!!) I set off for another arctic trek. It was safe to say that any novelty associated with the snow had definitely worn off. My walk started off as normal, until I went and stepped into a pile of slushy snow. Instead of stopping when my foot hit the ground, my whole leg just kept going, and my knee bent up the wrong way! Gross! So my first reaction was to almost vomit, (thankfully I didn't because arriving to work covered in puke would not be a good look!), second reaction was to cry, just a bit, cos it was so cold it hurt! Then, I think shock may have played a part in this, I decided to continue walking to work. By some miracle, I actually made it in on time, although by the time I got there I was in a lot of pain and was starting to worry that I'd hurt myself really badly.

By the end of the day I was pretty sure I'd done some sort of damage, so one of my friends kindly dropped me to the VHI clinic, where I was X-Rayed and they informed me that they think I might have torn my Cruciate Ligament. Woohoo!! To make matters worse, the snow was getting so insane outside that it was impossible to get a taxi anywhere, so we had to walk for another 2 hours to get home (note the walk really should only have taken 40 minutes at most, but what with me being crippled it took a LOT longer).

So, basically for nearly the last fortnight I've been on crutches and my kneecap now resembles some sort of mutant grapefruit. I've had an MRI, which wasn't as scary as I thought it would be, although the assless hospital gown was definitely not the most flattering ensemble I've been sporting this season. They even gave me a DVD of my MRI, which, while interesting, was decidedly gross. And I got a far more in-depth look at my leg fat than I really needed. I know it's there, I don't need to see a cross section of it, thanks very much!

So that explains where the crutches bit comes from, now as regards the gingerbread, well that's quite simple. My husband was at the shops today and brought me a Gingerbread House Kit, so I spend the evening happily up to my elbows in icing and little sweets while creating a lovely, albeit structurally questionable, house.

Well if you've stuck with me up to now, I sincerely thank you. I hope this has been somewhat entertaining. I shall certainly try to keep future posts much shorter, although it's only fair to warn you that I do have a tendency to ramble (in case you hadn't already figured that out!). As a reward for reading this far, here's a lovely picture of my delightful Gingerbread house, and with the way the economy is at the moment, there's a good chance this is as close as many will come to the real thing!!