Restrainink Order

Mother! Oh, God! Mother! Ink! Ink!

Anyone who has seen Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho probably remembers the gruesome sequence in which Norman Bates frantically cleans the bathroom with a mop and a towel when he learns that 'Mother' has rather rudely butchered Marion Crane in the shower. 'Mother! Oh, God! Mother! Blood! Blood!', he cries when he discovers precisely what the troublesome Mrs Bates has been up to.

While the famous sequence in which Marion is knifed to death is deeply disturbing -- I don't know how many times I've seen it, but the hairs on the back of my neck always spring to attention as soon as Bernard Herrmann's shrieking score strikes up -- there's a sense in which I find Norman's mopping up even more unsettling. There's something truly horrific about the way in which he splashes the mop around in the blood-stained bath, then runs it down the side panelling. And the subsequent grabbing of a pristine white towel to finish off the job just makes things worse.

I usually like to model myself on another of Hitchcock's characters -- Roger O. Thornhill from North by Northwest, as played to perfection by Cary Grant -- but last night I found myself thrown headlong into the role of Norman Bates.

I have read many horror stories about what happens when you drop a full bottle of ink, but I had not, until yesterday, personally been through the experience. It was about 9.30pm, and I had taken a fairly new bottle of Noodler's Prime of the Commons Blue-Black into the bathroom in order to fill my Aurora Talentum. I had drawn ink from the bottle earlier in the day without a hitch (I was preparing a vial to send to honorary Penquod crew member Stefan), but I was not so lucky second time around. When I unscrewed the lid, the bottle slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. It didn't smash, but it did empty all but about half a centimetre of its contents over the pale wood. And the toilet. And the wall. And the hems of my trousers. And my feet.

Time seemed to stand still. The house was suddenly very silent. I knew that I had to act quickly, as the Inkette had gone up to the attic in order to send a few emails. If she came down and discovered the spillage, I knew that there would be blood and ink to mop up.

As I looked down at the mess, I realized that I had no real idea of where to begin. Because my feet had been splashed, I knew that moving was not a good idea. But moving was going to be necessary if I was to be within reach of something with which to begin mopping up the disaster. Suddenly, as the ink continued to drip from the toilet to the floor, I vaguely remembered reading something about surviving a chemical attack: If your clothes have been contaminated, strip. And so, dear readers, I carefully removed my inky shoes and trousers -- be still, your beating hearts -- and, just to be on the safe side, my jumper. I was now standing slightly back from the spillage in a t-shirt, underwear, and socks. The house was still silent, so the Inkette, I concluded, had not yet finished typing.

Most manufacturers of toilet paper celebrate the absorbent qualities of their tissue; they have clearly never used it to mop up Noodler's ink. My initial attempts to clear up the disaster area with Andrex toilet paper didn't really make much of a difference: within seconds, the paper would be saturated, and the resultant smudging seemed only to make the spillage bigger. Remembering Norman Bates' speedy recovery, I reached behind me for a large white bath towel. I dropped it onto the puddle and watched as it gradually became blue. When it had made a significant difference to the spillage, I drafted in a small sponge, which I repeatedly soaked and used to wipe away what remained. (I did consider dashing downstairs for a mop, but I decided that this might have alerted the Inkette to my desperate race against time.)

After about ten frantic minutes, the floor, the wall, and the toilet all looked as good as new. The towel, however, was ruined, and the sponge had become a dark blue colour. My trousers, I conceded, will probably have to be relegated to the category of 'Apparel to Wear While Painting', but my desert boots -- which are uncannily similar to those sported by Norman Bates in the second image displayed above -- are fortunately dark enough to make the ink stains invisible. (Praise be to Kiwi Multi-purpose Protector, too!) Exhausted, I stood back and surveyed the sparkling scene.

It was then that I noticed it. Just above the skirting board to the side of the toilet was an ink spot. I found a clean corner of the towel and wiped. Nothing happened. I dampened the towel and tried again. Still nothing. 'Out, damn'd spot!', I cried, but it refused to budge (presumably because it had fallen upon matt paint). Just as Norman Bates' clean-up operation is eventually ruined by a tiny scrap of paper that he fails to flush down the toilet at the motel, my perfect recovery had run aground upon a stubborn ink blot.

I decided that I should simply confess to the Inkette. (I did consider blaming the whole thing on Baby Ink or one of the cats, but I quickly realized that they'd all have flawless alibis.) She was not amused. Ink fact, she has banned me from taking ink into the bathroom. Yes, dear readers, a restrainink order has been served.

I am typing these words at 6.40pm. In around three hours, I will need to fill my pens in preparation for tomorrow's working day. But where will I open my bottles? Which room will fill in and allow me to fill in peace? To where can I and my colours run? Speak up and spill the beans, damn'd house! At this moment in time, I can see no way of sweetening the spill.

Inks eventually directed inside pens today: Herbin Lie de Thé; Noodler's Prime of the Common Blue-Black.