Fantasy in the City

The Kraken of the U-bend

There was a tentacle in the toilet.

It was an absolutely massive, Hollywood-esque tentacle. Steven Spielberg would have loved to use it in a movie. The gnarled, sucker covered limb was the sort of thing that would have had Captain Nemo run screaming from the room, swearing off seafood for life. John, a short man of around sixty who seemed the type who let his wife buy zip-up cardigans for him, thought it was the stuff of nightmares. Silvery, with an iridescent sheen that reminded him of a trout he had once caught when a boy, it lay half-in, half-out of the water, its tip twitching back and forth lethargically. The rest of it disappeared into the pine-fresh depths and around the U-bend.

The tentacle was a most unwelcome visitor. John’s revulsion was partly due to his belief that there were only certain things that should be put down toilets. Giant monsters were not on his list.

Horrified by the sight, his first reaction was to just get rid of it. He pressed the flush and watched the green, foaming water swirl around the waving thing. The toilet backed up considerably until the surface of the water was level with the bowl’s rim, which caused John no end of angst as he hurried to put a towel around its base. Then the water rushed away, pulled by the force of the U-bend’s siphon, gurgling in that happy way that toilets do.

The tentacle remained, along with a hint of alpine forests. It slapped the lip of the toilet seat in an irritated manner, causing John to step back in surprise.

Damn, he thought to himself, what the hell am I going to do with this?

Several hours of argument then ensued with his wife, Shirley. John was of the belief that he could dispose of the tentacle with caustic soda and a broom handle. Shirley was of the opinion that her husband was a bloody fool who never read the instructions on electrical items and was too tight to spend money on getting professionals in to fix the things he’d worked on.

“If he’s just going to shove a stick down the toilet to get rid of it, I am going to be pretty hacked off,” he protested.

“Just get on the phone, John. I can’t face another disaster!”

By the early afternoon, John welcomed Mr R J Moffat, of R B Moffat and Sons, Astral Plumbers to the Public, into the house. A round-faced and large man in blue overalls that were more like waders, Mr R J Moffat seemed more like an overgrown toddler in a romper suit than a plumber. He had a cheery disposition and a confident, breezy manner that spoke of his certainty that only he, Mr R J Moffat, could plumb the arcana of pipe-work and heating systems.

The plumber was led upstairs to the bathroom and shown the intruder in the toilet.

“Wow, that’s a biggie!” he said eventually, sucking at his teeth with a sharp intake of breath. “How’d you get that in there, then?”

“I don’t know,” John replied morosely. “It wasn’t there this morning but it was when we came back from Sainsbury’s. Gave me quite a shock when I came up for a jimmy.”

The tentacle twisted toward them and the tip rested on the seat like a snake’s head watching two mice.

“I haven’t seen one like that in years!” Mr R J Moffat said. “Not since the last time there was a conjunction of Venus and Saturn. It’s going to be a bit of a tricky job.”

“What? What do you mean tricky? Surely you can just pull it out?”

“Pull it out, mate? Not a chance! Have you thought about what’s going to be on the other end? Do you want that in here?”

“Can’t you push it back down? You know, with a plunger?” John rifled through his limited knowledge of plumbing terms accumulated solely through watching daytime DIY television. Programmes like You’re too Poor to Live Here, and Rich Bastards Build Big Houses had fed him the lie that he could build, plumb, garden and rewire his house. The dreadful mistake at the bottom of the garden – that John called the Outdoor Office – showed his true worth as a handyman. Shirley had insisted it remained locked and locked it had remained – for five years. “Wouldn’t you rod it?” He tried to adopt a knowing look and failed completely by sticking his hands in his pockets.