Thirty seconds of careful maneuvering, a squelch of suction, and then— pop —the whale emerged, dripping, still smiling. Dave held it up like a prize fish.

Now, the whale was lodged like a grinning, unblinking cork in the bend of the pipes. The water level in the bowl rose ominously with every tentative flush. Lucy’s husband, Tom, was on a business trip in Manchester. Her phone battery was at 6%.

It was 11:47 PM on a freezing Tuesday in Abingdon, and Lucy’s toddler had just achieved something that would go down in family infamy. The cheerful yellow plastic whale that lived in the toilet—a bath toy she’d forgotten to remove—had been flushed.