Warning. Disgusting story ahead.
Many of you know the story of our camping toilet. It has spent the last four years on the porch of the kids’ cubby house (“the only cubby with an outdoor loo”), waiting to find a new home, and occasionally holding cash for tradies (“the money is in the dunny”).
Last night, a friend of a friend posted on Facebook that she was looking to buy or borrow a camping toilet for this weekend. The perfect moment! We arranged for her to collect it this morning.
Waking this morning, somewhat queasy from overnight painkillers (I’m recovering from Round 2 of kidney stone surgery), I thought that I would do the right thing and move it to the front of the house.
Friends, I picked up that camping toilet, and it SLOSHED.
I checked the “flushing” tank. Empty.
You know what that means.
Yep, somebody – at some point in the last four years, but probably more than once – has USED the camping toilet in our back yard, on the porch of the kids’ cubby house.
I have cleaned and cleaned and cleaned, and then disinfected some more. And then showered, and resisted the temptation to scrub myself with BLEACH.
And the toilet is gone. I’m chalking it up as a decluttering win.
Obsessing about everything 