As you know, I'm redoing the bathroom. That's a misstatement, of course, designed to soothe my powerless soul. Properly speaking I am having the bathroom redone, or to put it in the Japanese suffering passive that was made for situations like this, the bathroom is being redone on me.
So far it's been OK. I still have a toilet and go next door to my brother's for showers, or sponge bathe in the kitchen. But when it comes time to tile the floor, the toilet gets taken out and not replaced until the floor and wall tile alike are laid and grouted and dried: and this is routinely a matter of some days. In summer in a renovation-mad city it can be quite a few days, in fact.
My sister in similar circs peed in a bucket and reserved everything else for the office. I fortunately have several other options. There is in fact a bathroom in the basement- a grim concrete room under a bare bulb, but functional. Only not, you know, at 3 am down two flights of stairs with a full bladder and a gimp knee. Next door is currently off at the cottage and I have an invite to stay at their place and even turn on their AC if needed. But I'm like my father- I want my *own* bed. Besides, all their mattresses are soft cripplers. The bucket routine in the kitchen, which I tried last night, is equally a pain at 3 am with a gimp knee, and no better at 6.
So I was sitting here tonight wondering what to do when I realized that there is indeed a toilet here on the second floor. It's sitting behind me next to the ironing board, and it's doing that because I inherited a vivid imagination of disaster from my professionally pessimistic mother. When the tilers took the toilet out I asked what they were going to do with it. 'Put it on the porch. The plumber will be bringing you the new one when we're done.' 'Put it in the study next door,' I said, clearly envisaging a scenario where my new toilet is not available or turns out to be broken or is in some fashion unusable, and I want the old one handy for temporary usage. Well, like now. My bucket fits perfectly into the bowl, and I get to sleep in my bed.
(Why I am less than fecking brilliant- because when I come to try my bucket in the bowl arrangement I neglect to make sure there's toilet paper handy. Thank goodness for wastepaper baskets and discarded kleenex.)