Flush Boy

Ross and I stayed our first three nights in England at a friend's place out in Cornwall. Brett and his dad Luke were amazing hosts. We were very well taken care of, and had comfy warm beds to sleep in. I liked most how Brett knew after getting off the plane from Minneapolis and driving six hours out to his place I would need a beer immediately upon arrival. 

We were showered with delicious cous-cous/pork and chicken/bacon salads for dinner and sausages, waffles and tea for breakfast.

Are you kidding me? After this salad I asked Brett to marry me.

Unfortunately there was a problem with Brett's toilet. The flusher was complicated and as it turned out I was the only one in the house who was unable to get it to work...and I'm no toilet dummy. (I know how to take the tank topper off and work on the insides to make a toilet flush). But this one completely baffled me. No matter how many times Luke told me to tickle the handle I just couldn't get it. Anyway, soon the story went something like this: I would "go" and then yell "Oh, Flush Boy!" and Ross would come and flush.

Poor Ross.

This is a photo of a "privy" that I took at a museum. There was little plastic poop inside. Gross!