Public toilets vary quite a lot around the country, from the downright despicable to the inescapably impeccable, Chelmsfords conveniences were stuck up three flights of stairs above a shopping centre and were middling on the scale. I'm constantly amazed at the different ways to wash and dry your hands too, from Dyson Airblades to gale force ten blowers, from paper towels to real towels that look like they have dried a dirty dog, this unique one I was stood in front of had the blower and get this, an ultra violet light to combat germs. Cool.
Not so cool was the guy who burst into the toilets and man handled is way passed pushing me into the dryer along the way. He was obviously desperate and had a pained expression, one you might imagine you would see if your naked foot had trod on an upturned plug in the dark. He barged into the nearest cubicle and slammed the door. Cubicles are not the most private of places so I was treated to assorted scuffles as he shed his clothes I imagined before a thud signified a seated position. Oh no, I thought, please, please, please let my hands be dry in time.
Too late.
OOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooommmmp. Pbtpbtpbtpbppbtpbt. Toot.
Krack Thoooom!
The last one took my breath away, this guy was seriously in trouble. After listening to what sounded like somebody turning himself inside out suddenly there was silence. Then the giggling started.
Not me but the guy in the cubicle. First a snigger then a giggle followed by a full blown laugh out loud. Relieved or not I didn't hang around. I expected him to burst forth with his trousers around his ankles laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming from his eyes in happiness. Stay I did not and I left quickly.
Bournemouth on the other had was bathed in glorious sunshine but again after the hours travelling down meant I needed to use the facilities. This time I would rank them as average. I was the only occupant, at least that's what I thought until a burly fluorescent clad hulk of a man appeared in the doorway.
'Howee doone we ya snapper?' he shouted over my shoulder. It appears to most men I appear quite invisible in public conveniences.
'Gimmie a pinch, done two just wanna clip it'. What is this?? Some kind of toilet talk I don't understand? I travel 221 miles starting at four in the morning to stand listening to some new form of descriptive commentary about the toilet habits of a toilet troll. Sheesh. Even more embarrassing was the revelation that now hit me as I turned, the area I was standing in had full view out onto the pavement and any passing old dear could see me, my day was complete before it even started.
So if you decide to use the male conveniences in central Bournemouth do not, I repeat, do not stand on the far right unless you wish to be giggled at mercilessly and pointed at by passing youths. Don't even get me started with the three button all in one soap, wash and dry machine that tries to cover your crotch in all three.
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