Firstly, I'd like to congratulate Scotland on making the right decision - well done, and I'm sure that we'll all benefit from it.
Secondly, this is my first proper Monday Moan - how exciting!
Thirdly, you're probably thinking that this particular post, however, has a very odd title. Let me expand...
Ok, so picture this: you're at an event: say, the cinema, a theatre, an airport, or something. Nature calls, so of course you head towards the right toilet according to gender (or the wrong one, if you're having one of those days). When you enter the bathroom - how quickly you do this depends on how long the undoubtedly extensive queue is - you're usually met with the awkward issue of awkward doors: is there a person in this one, or does it just look closed? Is the person in front of me waiting in the line or just waiting around for a friend or no particular reason at all? And does all this pondering make me look weird? So you naturally walk towards said problematic door, and if you're in luck, then you proceed.
On a good day, this should be the easiest part of the whole tricky process. But oh, if the various bathroom tables have been turned against you, then you're left with one of the world's greatest dilemmas: the lack of toilet paper. If you're female, you've most likely gone to the loo with a friend, or even a sizeable group, and so you may be lucky enough to be able to do the psst-please-pass-me-some-under-the-cubicle-gap trick, but if not, then oh, how one suffers. Especially if you hadn't noticed as soon as you came in, thereby leaving yourself in a rather difficult and unsanitary situation.
Well, if you've managed to deal with this issue before, I commend you.
Now, having completed said issue management, you now must actually flush the toilet. But with new obsessions over hygene, you may encounter the dreaded automatic flush, and the horrors which therefore ensue. Let me share a lovely anecdote: my first impressions of America (on another note, as much as I love the country itself, its cubicles perplex me - the gaps between the cubicle doors, ceiling, and floors are so sizeable that I wouldn't be surprised if most Americans are just used to seeing each other on the loo - but maybe I'm just being very fussy and Surrey-esque) over summer involved an automatic flush, as the toilets at Atlanta airport were fortunate enough to have them. Yes, they're fast, they're clean; all that is very well. But what if you're having a deep thinking session with yourself? Or checking up on the networks of socialness? What if, quite simply, you're not done yet? But oh no, said flush does not comply with your wishes, and so it very suddenly flushes, rudely catching you unawares, and leaves you wondering what just exploded behind you before realizing that this is not a mine or incoming meteorite, it is simply (well, not really that simply) an automatic flush. Hmpf. Now you're all flustered, getting out of the almost certainly claustrophobic cubicle will add yet another issue to your already commendable list of issues.
In a state of high frustration, you now proceed to the sinks. This is where the real problems start.
Call me old fashioned, but when did washing your hands get so complicated? I get how it's more hygienic to be automatic and sense when hands approach instead of spreading loads of germs, but some of these supposedly helpful taps don't turn off for ages. Surely that's bad for the environment? Then others don't run for long enough, and you constantly have to thrust your hands back under them until it looks like you're trying to complete a particularly difficult move of the foxtrot using only your fingers. Next, the dreaded soap dispensers. I like to think of these as people.
In some instances, you have the indecisive people: "I may give you some soap... But I may wait for a few minutes, just until you're walking off then I'll relinquish a few squirts... In fact, I may time it so that there's just enough seconds for everyone to realise it's basically your fault that the entire sink area is now drowning in disenfectant-smelling foam". As you can see, this crowd can be pretty mischievous.
On the other hand, one can also encounter the more laid-back people: "I'm quite laid-back actually, yes, I like to consider myself vintage as I have one of those dispensers which you pull forwards, but I like to laugh at how people frown and squint over where they place their hand to collect my soap - when I decide to release it of course". In short, they're all spiteful, indecisive, malicious things.
What next? You face the no-win challenge of hand drying. You either have your hands sucked into a monstrous monstrosity of a machine which seems intent on pulling the very skin off your bones, or you're faced with a feeble mouse of a dryer which leaves you with no option but to wipe your hands on your lower region of clothes, hoping desperately that no awkward wet patches will show up on your outfit and look thoroughly suspicious. Overall, bathrooms seem to be full of extremes, and no reasonable in-betweens (unintended rhyme).
Phew, you're done! Now all that's left to do is to make a run for the exit without forgetting your handbag, and/ or knocking someone over in your frantic pursuit of freedom.
So there it is! My very long-winded, long-awaited, much moany, moan. Featuring the many charms of the humble bathroom.
Thanks for reading,
The (very frantic as this brings back bad bathroom memories and) happy blogger
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