Yesterday was a busy day; one of the toilets in the house needed replacement, so my pre-retirement government-bureaucrat husband set about doing just that.  He had bought a dual-flush toilet, a one-piece affair awkward to move let alone carry about; heavy and difficult to grasp, unlike the others that can be taken apart and moved in sections.  But this one has a flush for liquid and a greater flush for solid waste, so it is more environmentally useful, as it were.

Although it was the toilet in the basement of the house that needed to be changed, because when my husband first installed it he hadn't noticed a hairline crack in the porcelain bowl, which over the years since had gradually widened and extended itself until it completely wound about the interior, although it hadn't reached the point where it leaked.  Likely not much chance of that since it was double-walled, but we thought it best not to leave anything to chance and replace it.

It isn't used, down there, nearly as frequently as the one on the first floor, in the powder room where the iris-and-lily stained glass window is installed.  So my husband determined he would take out the existing, perfectly good toilet from there and replace it with the new, alternate-flush one, and put the powder room toilet bowl downstairs in the basement bathroom.  Easier said than done, of course, but it was done.

We interrupted the proceedings long enough to take a ravine walk, enjoying the appearance of the trees, liberally ice-covered and frosted with snow, dripping on us as we proceeded.  When we returned my husband shovelled the driveway of its overnight burden of ice and snow.  After which, he set about baking a rough-grain bread for me, the only kind I enjoy eating.