I write this on the toilet.
My partner stands there patiently chatting to me about his day as I melt into the disturbingly warm plastic of the seat.
It's my own toilet thankfully.
Not some grimey public one where the ***** lay in the shadows of the man-made whirlpool.
I am kidding; there are no *****. Scientists state.
This is a communal area for lost hair bobbles, bleach and the drowsy words of my partner's mouth as we commute here in the late hours of the night.
I like my toilet.