by James Minson
It's like a serial killer's basement - a blitz of frazzle and splat. Deep in the heart of its squalor, a gloating toilet is perched. Gruffly spattered by countless users, this commode is now a tyrant, a grim and fearsome presence. On occasion it thickly gurgles - an obvious taunting gesture. It has no handle, or lid, and the air around it has an alien taste: a sharp, metallic tang. A dark soup has filled its big porcelain bowl, and I shudder to imagine its contents.
James Minson is a social worker who lives in North Carolina and likes to play with words.