A Digression

One summer morning, my mother tells me we'd be visiting a friend for lunch. She'd made some new friends since the divorce, and some of the women who had shunned her at the time were now seeking their own divorces.

I'm eight, dressed in a tee shirt and shorts and while the women talk, I wander around the house, taking a peek in drawers and closets here and there. Finally, I need to use the bathroom and find it on my own off the main bedroom.

When I'm finished, I want a closer look at the odd gadget hanging in the toilet bowl.

I can't imagine what it is for, but there is a spout and a lever at the back.

Which I push.

I am rewarded with a gush of water that shoots out of the bowl and all over my shirt and face. Now Mom and her friend will know I've been up to something. I just wish I knew what it is myself.

I don't remember the outcome of my adventure that day. But it is many years before I am educated in the wonders of the bidet.