Ok, I've said before that every time we visit, there are always little quirky things wherever we stay. This trip is no different.
Apart from the floors that should have a topographical survey map included is my shower. It's a modern shower kit, no problem there, but the door is like a phone booth door, the kind that folds inward at the middle.
Well, that's fine, except as soon as I push the door in, it blocks the controls. Completely. The only way to turn on the shower is to get fully in the shower and shut the door. That means, no matter what, you're getting that first full blast of ice cold water. Get used to it.
Second one is more annoying, and my apologies up front, this will include some graphic descriptions of a bodily function.
Now, for those not in possession of a penis, let me give you a quick primer on biological male urination. When the biological male urinates, they first unfasten their trousers and open each side of the fly, revealing (if they've chosen to wear them) underpants.
Then they will usually use the thumb of one hand to pull down the elastic waistband of the underpants, revealing the penis. This allows the use of the other hand for grasping the penis, aiming it, and thereby controlling the stream of voided water. When completed, they simply reverse the process (after the required member shaking, of course), placing the penis back inside the underpants, raising the underpants up to their original position, the refastening the fly, button, and belt. Easy.
Not in two of the three bathrooms in Will Shakespeare's hideaway.
Modern toilets both, with lovely, heavy wooden seats and lids. However, the toilet designer deigned to get fancy and nonstandard and moved the flush handle from the edge of the front of the toilet tank to dead center. Trendy!
What's this mean in practical terms? It means that while the lid is able to lean back far enough to stay upright, the seat is not. No way. Physics is not on the side of the pee'r in this case.
Now, something that I assume is universal. You have to pee. Really badly. Like, you've had a beer and champagne and two mugs of tea and a bottle of water and decided you could make it to the house but you were wrong badly.
In those cases, when you get to the house, your bladder knows it. It knows sweet relief is coming. That pee is right there. Right. There. At the end of your peehole. It knows it.
You run to the door. Fumble with the key. That pee is now so happy, it's hanging out of your peehole, but not flowing just yet.
You get in the house, run like OJ through the airport (if you're old enough for that reference) to the bathroom, undo your pants, and that water is already making the journey outside your body while you're still in motion, flopping out your wiener or slapping your rear on the seat, whatever your situation may be.
So, imagine my surprise when I push the lid and the seat up, member out and already doing it's business, and the seat comes CRASHING back down, startling me to the point that I pretty much paint the toilet, the floor, the wall, the mirror, and myself with the latest shade of translucent pale yellow.
Imagine a firefighter with a full blast hose suddenly being electrocuted. That was my first pee in the house.
The only way for me to use two of the three toilets for urination is if I either stand sideways, lean forward at an odd angle, and put one foot up on the toilet bowl so I can then hold the lid up with my leg, and then still probably manage a 50-50 shot at getting my product in the bowl.
"There is no bad weather, only bad clothes." - Unknown