the union of the dirt and the dust - simon collinson

We’re all crammed here today to witness, the union of dust and dirt brought together and blessed by the plumpest toilet roll, who got the ceremony off to a cracking start by telling the gathering to be upstanding, including the surly toilet seat, then giving a nod for the dirt to be dragged in by a beaming bog brush, as the ancient aloe cream waved hello.

The plump toilet roll puffed up with pride as it announced, “ We’re all gathered here in the sight of the sun to witness the union of dirt and dust.”

The soaps and toothbrushes were well represented as were the shampoos and conditioners.

But slippy soap couldn’t stop giggling, it considered it all such a silly joke.

The shaving foam stood rigid and upright, coughing and spluttering as a wrinkly tube of toothpaste slept through it all, its snoring annoying tremendously some towels standing dryly beside a weepy flannel, who wept as only a wet flannel can and the shower curtain certainly blushed, but the louche loofah laughed.

They all turned up in their best attire, even old grout scrubbed up well. 

Only the messy coiled mesh of hair spoiled the silence and solemnity of the occasion, with its whiny whistling, but was soon told to pipe down by a soggy sponge, who’d certainly seen better days.

Then said the plumpest toilet roll,

“And knowest not of any detergent that would prevent the happy union of dirt and dust? Spray now or forever hold thy nozzle.”

Silence squirmed and squeezed into the room as a smarmy, smiley spider crawling all over the ceiling gave the bride a sly smile and a knowing wink. Then it scurried away towards a corner to attend to a fidgety fly that struggled far too much. It gave the fly such a tender kiss and the fly stopped struggling.

We all heard the plump toilet roll, tottering and teetering gently upon the wonky holder say, “let no bleach or detergent tear asunder a tender partnership.”

The dirt and the dust both declared, quite willingly,  “ I do “, the worn out nail brush witnessed it and swore that it was true, as bottles of handwash bounced with excitement, bumping and jostling with shiny aerosols straining to take a peek.

But the suave swivel shaving mirror wasn’t watching, it only had eyes for the elegant wall mounted radiator, who was arm in arm with a crumpled towel.

The bathroom smellies stood aloof. They were above it all.

But even they cast a glance the moment dust and the dirt exchanged washer rings.

And the cracks in the tiles joined with all the other crevices and crannies, in hysterical cries of ,“ Let no foot separate them.”

As the pompous and plump toilet roll boomed out,

“May the union of dirt and dust be truly fungal,

forever blessed by grime, 

May both of you grow mould and decay

I now pronounce you filth for life.

You may now kiss the tiles.”

“Oh don’t they make a grotty couple”, said the mucky mother of the dirt

And a bristly brush whispered sagely to a saucy shower cap, “It’ll never last”.

Simon is a writer from England.