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As the days went by, we began to conserve water; even if we dumped a full bucket from the dehumidifier, the cistern would only be half-full. Every time we filled the cistern up with water from the shower, that ate into valuable time where I could be playing on the computer or eating chocolate biscuits, so we did what we could to avoid needing to flush. I risked permanent damage to my kidneys and bladder, holding everything in until I got to the (still flushable) loo at the office.
We went to Macau and came back: the toilet didn't work. I flew to Bangkok and then back: the toilet still didn't work. When you've been through four sets of security cordons and your cistern still doesn't fill of its own accord, you have some sort of problem.
I began to think the landlord wasn't taking this seriously. Would I have to withhold rent to make them fix it? What percentage of your monthly fees is dedicated to adequate toilet provision?
Eventually, I called, and the contractor was dispatched. Although "the contractor" sounds like the protagonist of a sub-standard Jason Statham film made in Belgium, it turned out to be a little lady with a big hat. I showed her into our flat. I showed her the toilet. She fumbled for a moment with a tap beneath the toilet.
The cistern filled back up. I felt embarrassed. As a man, I should be capable of manly things like fixing toilets unaided, especially when it just means turning a tap. But on the other hand, my mechanical non-aptitude means that if I'd got over confident and started playing silly buggers with the bathroom equipment, I'd probably have ended up with a hundred-gallon per second blast of effluent gushing over the apartment.
Some things are better left to the professionals.
In celebration, hosted the Comedy All-Stars night this evening. Everyone laughed, toilet didn't malfunction. Which was nice.
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