Wednesday, 12 January 2011

I didn't need it THAT bad

It never fails to amaze me how difficult it can be to go to the toilet.

Surely you know where I'm coming from?

If you're lucky enough to be able to leave you offspring with your other half, a friend, or a random stranger (if you feel so inclined, some days do try us) then going to the toilet alone should be a treat for mothers. Not a mid-lunch sentence.

Firstly, finding the toilets in the middle of the restaurant is a nightmare. The once eating establishment becomes a maze of tables, room dividers and highchairs as you attempt to dodge the twelve-year-old waitresses that are merely over hip height.

Congratulations on meeting your destination. Now get into the cubicle. Go on. I like to think that I eat in reasonable places, but I've either put on a lot more than three stone or the bog-booths are shrinking somewhat. Hitching one leg over the seat and pivoting to enable your body to lie parallel with the cubicle wall allows you to shut the door and then flop onto the toilet seat, sweating and feeling like you've just had one of those 'stuck-in-a-dressing-room-with-a-too-tight-dress-round-your-head' moments. 

Finally, the release. Finally, you're all done and dusted, finally. Finally, you think your struggles are over and then you meet smartone. Yes, 'smart' one. In case you've not met said article, it's a loo roll dispenser which only allows one piece of the thinnest ever single ply loo roll to be extracted. I don't know about you, but how tidy do you never regions have to be to be able to dry yourself with one square of loo roll? Am I missing something? Or are my lady bits a more intricate design than everyone else's?

I do frantically pull at the paper and take almost double than I would normal. Not so f'ing smart now, are you?!

Following removal of oneself from cubicle, there is, of course, no handwash. You rub your hands together with the single sud of soap you've obtained in the hope it will foam up like every other type of soap you've ever encountered. In your life. Ever.

No such luck.

That's OK. Let's just dry our hands and get out of here. And if you're lucky enough to not have to bash the living daylights out the bottom of the hand-dryer; you will be meeting the new fangled 'stick-your-hands-in-straight-whilst-I-dry-you' dryers. The ones that rip all the meat from around your fingers and wobble it on the other side of your hand. I say meat, but I mean flab. Yes, they are the confirmation that flabby hands DO exist.

And, you know what? I could of just waited.

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