Ma recounted a story while we were staying with her that I would like to share:
Before Dad went in to hospital for his angioplasty, he was in considerable pain, particularly at night. This meant that he had great difficulty getting out of bed should he need to. And it also meant that he was on a large number of painkillers, which, apparently (I can find no euphemistic way to put this) have a variety of different effects on ones bowel. (I had a brief look for an informative link for this and decided that it was too depressing).
So at about midnight one night, Ma decided that he would be more comfortable if she could find him a bedpan.
She looked all over the house and couldn't find the bedpan she was certain she possessed. The only place left to look was the attic.
So, at about 1am, she found the loft-ladder, which was originally purchased in order to climb on the roof of my great-grandmother's East-End home and put out fires from incendiary bombs during the Blitz.
At roughly 1.05am, she ascended to the loft.
At approximately 1.06am, the loft ladder became dislodged and fell down the stairs.
By this time, my father had fallen back to sleep.
He is very deaf.
My mother was stranded in the loft for three hours, during which time she had plenty of time to look for the bedpan.
Eventually her shouting woke the dogs up, who then began barking loudly enough to wake up my sister next door, who after a while heard Ma shouting for help and came and rescued her.
They never found the bedpan.