LADIES LOOS: Why women go to the ladies in twos
When you have to visit a public loo, there's invariably a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. When it finally gets to your turn, you check for feet under the cubicle doors. Every one is occupied, but eventually a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving.
You get in to find the door won't lock. It doesn't matter the wait has been so long you're about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' is handy, but empty. You would hang your handbag on a door hook, if there was one, but there isn't, so you carefully but quickly drape it around your neck, yank down your pants, and assume The Position.
In this position your ageing, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay loo paper on it, so you hold The Position. To take your mind off your trembling thighs for a moment you reach for horror of horrors an empty loo paper dispenser. Your thighs start to shake more. You remember the tiny tissue you blew your nose on yesterday the one that's still in your handbag, which is now burning your neck and shoulders with the weight. So you contort your arm into a very unnatural position and start to fumble around in the deep, dark depths of your handbag for that small, crumpled 'used' tissue no bigger than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes your door and because the latch doesn't work it hits your head, which is bent over from holding the hanging handbag, and you start to topple backward. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door and drop the precious, tiny, crumpled tissue you had only just retrieved with your index finger into an unknown puddle on the floor. If that isn't enough you lose your balance altogether and gravity pulls you down directly onto the loo seat.
It's wet, of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form that lives on the uncovered seat. By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the loo is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose into the bowl, which sprays a fine mist of water that covers your bottom and runs down your legs (along with the various life forms) into your dishevelled pants, which have now dropped to your ankles. The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty loo-paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet loo seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe yourself with a piece of chewing gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out conspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the taps, so you rub your hands underneath it, grateful for the two drops there, then around the basin itself.
You go to the towel dispenser, past the line of women still waiting where, of course, there are no paper towels. So you move over to the hand dryer, which, yes, you've guessed it, also doesn't work. You are no longer able to smile politely to the women, but there is an unspoken understanding between you all.
A kind soul at the very end of the line points out that you have a piece of loo paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you needed it?)
As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the Men's. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why's your handbag hanging around your neck?"
This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with public loos. It also finally explains to men what really does take us so long, and also answers their other frequently-asked question about why women go to the loo in pairs.
It's so the other one can hold the door, hang onto your handbag and hand you tissue under the door!
WE'VE GOT MAIL