loos
I have not got much luck when it comes to visiting the little boys' room at work now, have I?
First there was the logged log.
Then, last week, as I sitting on the throne and texting a mate, somebody opened the door I had left unlocked (a bad habit I picked up since living with Dr B., where I can have a wee and talk to him in the South wing at the same time). I have not identified the unfortunate co-worker; all I saw was a flutter of tweed and an embarassed pair of sensible low-heels turning around quickly.
And now the loo seat in the middle stall (the one I normally use, next to the toilet door) is cracked. And I am asking myself if it was my fat arse that did it.