Last Wednesday, after 20 months of nagging him to "get on with it", my husband finally painted the bathroom floor.

It was a day of both celebration and tension.

When I left for work in the morning, he was filling in the cracks in the floorboards.

When I returned home with Eve, our three-year-old, at 6pm, he had just given the floor a second coat of some sort of blue, water-repellent paint to match the hugely expensive tiling and bathroom suite we bought last century.

"You can't go in there for two hours," he said.

Eve pulled a face: "But I need a wee-wee."

"Well, you'll just have to do it in your old potty," said my husband.

"No I can't. That's for babies," she wailed.

"Potty or pants," he said sternly and she gave in and perched herself on the dusty plastic container we'd had to get down from the loft.

"I need a wee-wee, too," I then said.

My husband rolled his eyes before suggesting that perhaps I could go round to our friends, Jake and Rafia, who live in the next road.

"No I can't. It'll be bathtime for their kids," I wailed, "Besides, it's too embarrassing."

"Well, you'll just have to hold on until eight o'clock," he said, standing back to admire his truly professional brushwork.

For the next two hours I busied myself doing some cooking and cleaning and taking care not to be near the sound of running water. When the two hours were up, I scurried upstairs.

"Not so fast," said my husband. "I want you to walk carefully across the floor without dragging your heels. Don't turn on any taps and DON'T SPLASH," he added, somewhat needlessly.

At 9pm, just as I was settling down to watch ER, my husband decided to give the floor another coat of paint. I made sure I used the bathroom first.

At 10.30pm, with the job completed, my husband then realised he urgently needed to empty his bladder too.

"What about Jake and Rafia's?" I suggested.

"Can't," he said. "It's too late to go knocking on people's doors."

"Or what about the garage at the bottom of the hill?" I continued.

"I've already bought petrol today," he said. "I wouldn't feel right just walking in to use their toilets."

"Well, there are plenty of public conveniences."

"Public?" A look of terror passed over his face.

"I suppose I could always go down to The Grand," he said, quickly attempting to change the images that were flashing through his head.

"I could order an absurdly expensive gin and tonic and then I wouldn't feel so bad about making use of their facilities."

"You'll have to change first," I said, eyeing his paint-spattered T-shirt and indecently tatty jeans. "It's up to you. But I'm going to bed. Night, night."

"Hmm." Said my husband, looking anxiously at the clock.

Two hours later I was woken by the sound of the toilet flushing and my husband getting back into bed, breathing a huge sigh of relief.

"I'm so glad the bathroom is finished," he whispered.