Yesterday afternoon, I came home to find my toilet out of place. It was still in the bathroom, but not where I had left it. It was turned around backwards, off the drainage flange, scooted up close to the bath tub as if it were getting ready to draw a warm bath.
Rather than jumping to conclusions, I sat down on it to reason out the situation. (After all, many find the toilet to be a good thinking spot.1) I determined that there were two possible solutions to this quandary, that is, how my toilet ended up in its current location.
- A burglar, perhaps a serial criminal, entered my house while I was out and about, used the toilet, then removed the toilet with his own or my tools to determine the cause of the moist floor underneath (where it had been leaking), but did not have a new wax gasket available with which to put it back in its original place.
- The toilet, of its own accord, loosed itself from the chains of iniquity which had held it securely bolted to its flange for several years and decided to take a bath to wash itself of the filth it had so long suffered to contain at the—ahem—hands of its owners.
Now, being a reasonable chap, I thought through these possibilities with the utmost care and even jotted down the steps required for each one to take place. I then calculated their respective probabilities. Finally, I came to the conclusion that it must be the second: there were no signs of burglary at the entryways and my valuables appeared for the most part unmoved. (I cannot fathom a burglary without any stolen valuables.)
Thus, having ascertained that the toilet had moved of its own volition, I realised my toilet now had a mind of its own, which could, of course, make it unpredictable. Again, rather than jumping to conclusions, I reasoned this out philosophically. If the toilet, thought I, has a mind of its own and is even able to remove itself and walk towards the tub (even if it did not actually manage to turn on the bath),2 then what, thought I, might it do in the night, when I am soundly sleeping unawares? Indeed, it must have the ability to eventually move itself into my sleeping quarters, possibly damaging the carpet on its way. It might even have such ill intent as to attempt to murder me in my slumber. This, thought I, would not do. A toilet with a will, which—or perhaps, since the toilet now seems endowed with personhood, who—must certainly be fed up with its master, is a dangerous bedfellow.
Therefore, I determined to lock the bathroom door each night until such time as I am able to replace the moistened subfloor underneath the toilet and put the toilet back into its proper spot. Also, even though it is not recommended by local plumbing codes, I just might have to use lock-washers and/or lock-nuts3 when I re-install it.