I’ve just entered my ninth decade
(Side issue: Current health guidelines suggest that an old guy should drink lots and lots of water.)
And with the increasing frequency of certain bodily urges, I’m fortunate in that I can still deal with these urges standing up.
These urges are reliably triggered by beer, a walk by the creek, the turning on of a tap or, God help us, filling the water tank at the Deep Creek Water Treatment Plant.
(Side issue: Current health guidelines suggest that an old guy should drink lots and lots of water.)
If I’m unable to relieve these urges in a relatively-inconspicuous outdoor setting, common courtesy would require that I raise the toilet seat beforehand, and close it thereafter. And therein lies the problem of separating the noises I may or may not produce at home from those that are not appropriate in other venues.
Consistent, perhaps, with gittin’ old is carrying my home habits into the public domain. And yes, this involves the toilet seat.
Y’see, I’m pretty much programmed to givin’ our soft-close lid a swat and lettin’ it settle on its own. Quietly.
Yer average standard toilet seat is a different story.
Some businesses have put in place damage-control measures like a soft-close seat. (Or have they?)
It’s possible that nobody’s gonna hear that Bang! in Canadian Tire or Tim Hortons.
I won’t have to remember to check. Home habits will remind me, I’m sure.
But jeez … it’s so embarrassing at the Whitehorse Health Centre. And it’s even worse at yer friends’ place. Shattering their peace and tranquility, due to the lack of hydraulic dampening, is not polite.
(Sotto voce): “D’you think he broke our toilet?”
Well, there is another option where that Bang! doesn’t matter. In fact, in some circumstances it can be a real plus …
I once scared away a large fur-bearing carnivore by slamming the lid in our old crapper. (It also signals availability of the facility to the next in line.)
To clarify: Notwithstanding the introduction, and with clear evidence of declining mental acuity, I am not 90 years old.
Yer first decade is from ages one to 10. Right? Do the math—or, rather, the arithmetic.
Cheers.
