Shower of abuse

As long-time readers are doubtless aware, this is my 886th post.  I expect you wonder from time to time, "How do you keep your content and anecdotes so fresh and relevant?"  Well, thank you for asking.  The answer is that I have a secret weapon.

Mr and Mrs Nunn.

Whenever I feel writers' block encroaching, it's time to go and visit the parents.  This will undoubtedly provide me with at least three new anecdotes to take away and amuse you with.  I know everyone thinks their own parents are mad, but mine actually are.  Mrs Nunn is quick of temper but quick to forget about it.  Mr Nunn is slow to anger, but very easy to wind up, as he likes everything to be perfect.  You could argue that I shouldn't be winding my pensioner parents up, but honestly, do you want to read a Plog or not?

So, before I went to visit them recently, I was talking to Mr Nunn about the shower.  When TheBloke (TM) and I had been there last, the shower had kept us delightfully awake by randomly dumping cold water on us in the middle of the shower.  Mr Nunn was - of course - devastated about this.

"So," I said to Mr Nunn on the phone, the day before I was due to travel, "have you got that bastard shower fixed yet?"

"Yes!" said Mr Nunn.  "We've had a brand new shower put it, and it's lovely, so you will be able to have a lovely, hot shower when you come to visit."

So up the M1 I toddled.  (The word "toddle" is to throw Mrs Nunn off the scent as she gets angry if I drive above 60 mph.)

The next morning I decided to have a shower.  My parents have one of those electrical showers with a pull cord.  I pulled the cord.  It wouldn't pull.  I wondered if it might be a bit stiff, being new, so I tugged it a little bit harder.  Still no joy.  I didn't want to break it, so I went to fetch Mrs Nunn.  Mrs Nunn couldn't pull it either.  She went to fetch Mr Nunn.  Mr Nunn couldn't pull it.  So far this was a bit like the story of the Enormous Turnip.

In my world, at this point we'd call a professional in.  Not in Mr Nunn's world.  He likes to fix things.  Within two and a half minutes, he was tinkering with the box on the ceiling, despite my protestations that actually, I think I'd rather have a bath anyway.

Ten minutes later I had a bath.  Mr Nunn went away muttering.

Later that day, I went to visit Erica and Dean, who have recently had a brand new baby.  Brand new babies are brilliant because you can put them in fancy dress and they instantly look fantastic.  As Dean pointed out, they can dress their daughter in a teddy bear outfit, as a dinosaur or as a pumpkin and people say how sweet she looks.  If he went to work dressed like that, he'd be sectioned.

When I got back to my parents' house, Mrs Nunn told me that Mr Nunn was trying to mend the shower.  She made a cup of tea for me.  I said to her, "Did you know the wi-fi is down?"

Mrs Nunn said, "Yes, Mr Nunn has turned the power off so he can tinker with the shower."

I said, "So how did you manage to boil the kettle then?"

Mrs Nunn looked perplexed.

Mr Nunn came downstairs and said, right, just need to put the power back on.  He reached to the fuse box, flipped the switch and there was a massive bang.

Mrs Nunn instantly started screaming.  Not out of fear, but at Mr Nunn.

"For fuck's sake!  I fucking told you not to fucking touch the fucking electrics.  I've had e-fucking-nough of this.  Seriously.  STOP fucking around with it before you fucking kill your fucking self!"

Such a torrent of swear words and volume.  It was quite terrifying.  How was Mrs Nunn going to follow this sentence?  A request for divorce?  A fist-fight?  Not quite.

"Oh look," she said, looking through the window, her tone of voice changing faster than a politician's argument following an opinion poll, "the petunias are out."

My parents are mad.