There we were, casually wheeling the trolley by the baked goods display when, suddenly (in keeping with cliches), my coveting was interrupted by..
“Mummy, I need to do pee pee”
“Your Father put you up to this, didn’t he? You are in on this keep-Mum-away-from-the-carbs-at-all-cost ploy together”
“Sure. Let me just find somewhere to park this”
The pregnancy test shelf. Perfect. Oh no, wait, not a good idea if we’re going straight from there to the toilet. The dog-food aisle. We don’t even have a dog, but I’m half-way through negotiations to wrangle a gold-fish as a compromise deal and potential gate-way pet to bigger beasts. “But…but..[pleadingly]..she’s an only child”. Heavy duty lash batting etc.. I see a pattern emerging. Men. *eyerolls* (Don’t worry. I’ll be complaining about women who belittle men by doing this in my next post. Probably).
Two toilets; one in abysmal shape. How the fuck do people manage to do that?, I wonder in my sideways head. It is a truth universally unacknowledged, that on finding all available toilets in a public premises are filthy, there is a panicked fear that the next person in will suspect you’re the culprit. Few moments between strangers are more tense than that when one is washing their hands while looking ahead in the mirror only to catch the other sticking their head rapidly back out of the cubicle from which they just emerged. “It won’t flush” doesn’t cover all bases. And, if you’re already under the hand-drier, it’s just not worth shouting over it. It’ll sound like “I’ve got thrush” and will inevitably lead to a pile-up of tumbleweeds.
The sweet relief of parting those scenes. Grossly underestimated. Along with managing to pack the shopping before the healthier goods from the customer behind slides over the conveyor belt and narrowly avoids a collision with yours. Is it any wonder anxiety levels are on the rise.
The other cubicle is grand. In we go.
Ten minutes later…(she chose the occasion to request a run-through of her genealogical chart. Relaxes the bowels.)
Out we come.
“Careful. Mind the lady”
The lady smiles. Early..mid-twenties, tops. Bit much calling her a lady.
Ignore this advice
“Maybe you don’t like being called a lady. It’s one of those potentially dodgy words, isn’t it? Like girl. Girl..woman..lady. It’s hard to know. Lady. Suggests you should be posh or have a blue rinse.”
“It’s grand! But I hate being called ‘Mrs’. You know, when someone says “Can I help you there, Mrs?”
“It’s hazardous alright”
I better let her get on with the task she came in for. She remarks on the ban diet garda’s cuteness.
“Say goodbye to the er..bye now”. She disappears into the clean cubicle.
We finish washing our hands as another female comes in. She’s headed for the other one. Oh no. Will I?
“I really wouldn’t go in there if I were you”.
We’re out the door when I panic slightly about that sounding too close to.. “I’d give it a minute”.
I never go in a cubicle which has the loo lid down – obviously hiding something nasty. My worst moment of It Wisnae Me was actually at a friend’s house. She is even more of a domestic slut than I am. She has an ensuite which is for her and husband, one bathroom that is left for the three kids to use and a spare loo which never works. I was at one of her gatherings, and had been left with no choice but to use the Kids’ loo. Gawd it was awful. I had an added dilemma of wondering if I was a good enough friend to clean it before any of her other guests had to endure it. I chose not to, and of course as I left the bathroom, another guest came up. I decided to say nothing, assuming my silence would clearly indicate innocence. Incidentally, with reference to my previous comments about pals who have good showers, I always politely decline an invitation to stay over at this house
Eeeeww. Boys. Many of them know no shame. That reminds me, I forgot to include our toilet seat in my exhibition the last day. I don’t know if novelty is the right word, but it would definitely give most folk performance anxiety. I’ll surprise you with it one day.
My favourite gross-out toilet story concerns a friend of a friend (aren’t they always) who was invited back ‘for coffee’ to this woman’s place. He’d just met her that night. She forgot to tell him the toilet wasn’t working, and he had to do the needful. The only flush option available to him was the bathroom window.
Exactly. The fear of being seen as the culprit. The saying things out loud that it’s clear one is not the culprit. Exactly.
It wasn’t me. I swear. No, really. Believe me.
I am told I have an OCD/PHOBIA of public toilets, but its neither of those things. Its called ‘being normal’ and not wanting to go into a public cess pit of filth and microscopic air-born death viruses. I always worry when the toilet is erm..full, shall we say, and back away in revulsion while scanning for onlookers who may think that I ‘filled it’. Great post.
Heh heh. Put it there *extends appendage* er maybe not *withdraws*
Ha ha I carry a little bottle of Spirigel just for those awkward handshake moments.
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LOL, this cracked me up. Particularly thinking of the ‘thought bubbles’ in an amazing non-American accent. Thanks to Paul for sending me over here to read (when I should be finishing the household chores). I blame Paul, yep.
Down with household, I say!
Thanks so much for stopping by and signing up, sheketechad 🙂