Why cleaning toilets is a harrowing job

I fought the poo and the poo won...

Yeuch, well, at least the title gives away what this post is about, so if you like it not, you have no-one but yourself to blame for reading further.

I wandered to work today, feeling a little peaky for unspecified reasons. I hoped that my loos would be reasonably clean and easy in order not to encourage my peakiness to a zenith. At first I was relieved, and then I discovered a submarine of the brown and ... well, you know what kind. So I flushed it. And I flushed it. And it gripped the bottom and sang "We shall not, we shall not be moved." I went away and attended to the other cleaning jobs.

Then I returned. It gloated.

I flushed it some more.

It gloated some more, peering up at me from the bottom.

I decided to break it up with a pointed stick. It unleashed noxious fumes of the kind to make the pit of eternal stench weep. "Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling..." I flushed it. It vanished. I came back with the blue toilet cleaner and in my absence, it had slipped back into position from its hiding place, apparently unaffected. This cycle repeated three times.

I fought on, retching half the while. Eventually I created such a foam in the toilet that it could no longer be seen. I fear, however, that it is still there, lurking.

I hope that by next Tuesday it will have decided to seek its fortune elsewhere.