How the Queen of Toilets Ruled My Life

When we chose an ever-so-stylish import to grace our only loo, we never guessed the complications we were in for.

Ours was a more recent model from a great name in English toilets.

It was our first bathroom renovation in our long-awaited first home. We envisioned a throne room worthy of the name. No commonplace toilet for us! We chose the queen of toilets, a champagne-colored British import whose generous proportions made your basic john feel kindergarten-size by comparison. On a Twyford toilet, you could complete the New York Times crossword in comfort.

We soon discovered that a toilet should not be too inviting when there's only one in the house. And that when said toilet stops flushing, it had better not require exotic parts—more precisely, the part I'd always called “the gizmo that goes up and down.” I didn't learn what it's really called until our plumber took one look inside the Bentley of toilets and said, "Can't help you. It's a nonstandard ball cock. Where'd you get this thing, anyway?"

Back we went to the source: the biggest plumbing supply store in Canada's biggest city. Sorry, they weren't carrying Twyford anymore. No, they didn't have a Twyford ball cock gathering dust in the back room. So I embarked on a survey of every plumbing supply store in the Yellow Pages (this being the pre-Goggle era). The fellows in the parts department—make that 279 parts departments—had never even heard of Twyford but they sure appreciated a good belly laugh on a slow afternoon. "Hey, Joe!" they’d guffaw. "Got a lady on the blower wants a ball cock for a Twyford toilet!" I’ll leave Joe’s witty riposte to your imagination.

A Twyford supplier finally turned up in a far-flung bedroom community. Because I don't drive, I took the train and a cab to shop for ball cocks. One by one, they expired. And by this time no one in Ontario could sell me a Twyford ball cock.

I dreamed of a Twyford ball cock the way some people dream of Prada bags or Porsches. My idea of bathroom decor had never included a large plastic bucket in a particularly garish shade of yellow, but one had taken up residence beside our champagne-colored toilet. With a bucketful of water at the ready, you don’t need a ball cock to flush. But I guarantee you'll get tired of scurrying down two flights of stairs to fill your bucket in the basement washtub, and then back up again, sloshing all the way.

We were due to take our next vacation in England, where Twyford parts would surely be as plentiful as Royal Doulton figurines. Dream on. We spent the best part of a day fighting traffic in a rainstorm, with a surly teenager in the back seat, en route to Twyford's headquarters in Stoke-on-Trent, an industrial city not known for charm.

The three of us in England, somewhere prettier than Stoke-on-Trent.

The sights of England set our imaginations humming. The fabled dome of Saint Paul's, with its panoramic view of London. The topiary maze at Hampton Court, scene of royal revelry in Tudor days. The megaliths of Stonehenge, where the Druids performed their rites. But none of these linger in my memory like the dark window of the Twyford factory, where a notice announced, "Closed for inventory." We hammered and shouted and leaned on the buzzer while our son pretended not to know us.

At last a kindly gentleman came to our rescue—the manager himself. Touched that we'd come all the way from Canada, he presented us with two free Twyford ball cocks, which eclipsed all the other acquisitions of that trip. Who cares about Liberty textiles if the comfort of the loo is at stake?

When we sold that house, we had one precious Twyford ball cock to leave for the new owners. "Take good care of this," I told them, as if it were a stained-glass window or a lovingly restored antique finial. Close to 20 years later, when Tom and Sandra put our former home up for sale, I dropped in at the open house for one more look. I admired the fine job they’d done with the basement, which we never got around to finishing. Yes, they’d been good to our house (still ours to me, although their tenure in it surpassed our own). Our Twyford toilet retained its nobility, despite a small nick. "How's it holding up?" I asked.

Tom and Sandra looked at me quizzically. Wouldn't you know, they hadn't even unwrapped the spare ball cock.

Today’s finest toilet is Japanese, I’m told, with a built-in bidet, and a control panel for adjusting both the temperature and pressure of your spritz. The seat goes up and down all by itself. Our Twyford must have gone to a landfill by now. But oh, you should have sat upon that throne in its glory.

Have you ever made a splashy purchase that turned out to be a big mistake? Or sold a home and left a story behind that future owners will never know? I’d love to know—and so will others in this group. Seeing you connect with one another makes me smile.

And speaking of smiles, feel free to share this post with anyone who’d enjoy it. Or upgrade your subscription to paid if you’re so moved. I’d be grateful squared. Up to you, though. Everyone gets to read everything, now and always. I’m grateful to you all for joining me here, inspiring me to keep writing.