Potatoes of hope

Right now, we have both friends and family members in hospital. It takes a lot to cheer me up. But my school friend Jennie managed it. With potatoes.  

Jennie had come by a sack of very large potatoes (a long and elaborate tale in itself).

Having finally gained the potatoes, she felt their dimensions recommended them for a more interesting destiny than the pot. She would play a prank on her elderly friend Viv. 

She took her mother and Viv out to lunch. Then during the meal, slipped away back to Viv's house. 

Jennie went round the back to the conservatory and from her capacious handbag took several of the massive potatoes. But they were now transformed. Using a kids' craft kit, Jennie had given them little faces and arms. 

She ranged them on the ledge around the outside of Viv's conservatory, as if peering in the window. 

However, it was a blustery day and they blew right over.

She rearranged them. They blew over again. 

Finally she had all the potato people in place. 

She stepped back to admire her handiwork. 

 And fell five feet off Viv's patio. The drop was long enough for her to imagine dying. 

However, her guardian angel was on the alert that day and she fell neatly into the arms of a garden recliner chair.  Bruises there were aplenty, but breakages none.

At this point many would have given up, but Jen limped back up the steps to the house. The potatoes had fallen over again. 

Instead, Jennie placed them looking in through Viv's porch window. 

I would love to say that hilarity ensued. But in fact Viv failed to notice the potatoes looking in at her.

The following day, Jennie had to ring up and drop increasingly unsubtle hints to get Viv to spot her veggie-visitors. 

Finally, Viv saw them: 'Ha, ha, ha, ha!'

And for Jennie, that was enough. 

Mission accomplished. 

The self-describing toilet

I've been spending time at the hospital with my Mum.  As I arrive each morning I stop at the public toilets on the way in.
Today, a cleaner said,
'I'm afraid you can't come in here, but you can use the disabled one, opposite.'

In I went and shut the door.

Behind me a voice said, 'Welcome.'

I jumped.

'If you are blind or partially sighted and would like an audio description of this toilet, just wave your hand in front of this sensor.'

I didn't need such a description and frankly was doubtful that prose could do the toilet justice, so did not wave.

However, in spare moments, I found myself wondering whether the description would include the confetti of shreds of toilet paper on the floor, the trim of ancient grime along edges and corners.

The next day I returned surreptitiously and waved my hand.
The description was functional - toilet in righthand corner, sanitary bin to its left, emergency cord behind it.

I was dissatisfied with the description on two counts.

Firstly, it omitted some information that would have been very useful:
'Watch out! The person before you left the seat up. And try to avoid treading in the shallow pool of suspicious-looking fluid just in front of the loo.'

Secondly, it lacked ambition. If unable to see one's surrounds, one might wish to believe that they were beautiful and luxurious.
'The walls are frescoed in the Italian manner, surmount by a rococo  cornice of white stucco, with a scallop shell motif picked out in gold leaf.'

Now that's the toilet I'd want to visualise.