Kneeling beside the toilet recently, I thought of royalty.
No, I was not calling for Herb. No alcohol had passed my lips in either direction. Nor was my posture related to the ghastly incubation of some "miracle" baby. I was merely attempting another toilet repair.
I had taken to proudly striding into the smallest room, flushed with the success of my first job (true, I had to call on the First Born for help finding the relevant seal and to undo part of the cistern's doings, but I did manage to install it successfully).
If I was one for airs and graces I would have dubbed myself Queen Louise, popped a toilet roll on my head and posed regally holding the toilet brush.
The appearance of a large puddle on the floor shortly after had me gazing accusingly at the cat.
When the pond kept reappearing I recognised it as another leak, where the cistern pipe met the bowl.
It was hard to tell what was used for my earlier successful repair on this, but it had the attractive appearance of a misshapen cancerous growth which was now oozing.
I dispatched myself to the hardware store, bought half of its products and returned, only to find that despite several applications of my intelligence, I could not work out how to remove whatever container of gloop was in my caulking gun and replace it with a new purchase.
I gritted my teeth and tried to be gracious when the Third Born figured it out in three seconds. (Before I left him half an hour later, he felt obliged to test my memory on this which turned out, depressingly, to be necessary ... it's a wise son and all that.)And so it was that I was on my knees applying a variety of fine products to my toilet with thoughts turning to Wills and Kate.
Apparently, Kate will not travel to her April wedding in the glass coach.
Who knows why this is, but it has been suggested it may be considered too ostentatious.
Party planner Kate, after all, is a commoner.
Commoner. I rolled the word round in my head as I smeared another bit of goo on to the suspected wound (I had dispensed with the caulking gun, finding fingers and a kitchen knife were more effective. When I talked to the Third Born later he was worried my impatient throw-everything-at-it-at-once-and-hope-something-sticks approach would leave me with a worse problem caused by product incompatibility. He suggested leaving it to dry as long as possible.
I read that as being the best part of a decade, and wise mother that I am, left it for a couple of days instead.)If there has been anything common about Kate's life thus far, there won't be after marriage.
I cannot picture her cleaning her own toilet, let alone doing anything as common as attempting to fix it.
As a beautiful young woman married to a prince she will have little say over her own life, but, prising my gloopy fingers apart with the knife, I thought of the power she will have in shops.
If she was demanding and eccentric, people would bow and scrape and curtsy and say "Yes Ma'am" and rush to do her bidding.
If she wanted to correct a nationally distributed supermarket sign declaring 1kg packs of peaches "best eaten when flesh is firm and crunchy", lo, it would be done.
For more than a year I have tried to get this altered. I have telephoned and spoken in person to staff in two supermarkets in the chain about the stupidity of it, while cruelly noting "firm and crunchy" is often the state of their offerings.
Last week, seeing the sign was idiotically also being used for nectarines, I had a lovely chat to a duty manager. He was a nice chap and could see my point of view. He would raise it with head office, but couldn't guarantee anything.
Repair job done, stomping about looking for the top to a tube of sealant, I tried not to feel bitter about my ineffectiveness. I gave up the search, shoving a large nail down the end of the tube.
Relaxing with a cuppa later, my arm brushed a strange protuberance at nipple height. It was the sealant top, stuck fast to my polar fleece.
I couldn't decide whether this signalled likely success for my repairs or that my true calling was as a dotty old children's party entertainer.
I'd like to ask Kate for advice, but that would be common.
P.S.
My repair worked, but on refilling the cistern, I saw the tap to it was now dripping. Thread tape could be required, but the bargain double-pack bought on the advice of the nice man at the hardware store had disappeared. Queen Louise put a container under the drip and resolved to call a plumber.
• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
