Cubicle 2…or Navigating the 21st Century WC

For those born after 1980, WC is an acronym for Water Closet, itself a rather underused term these days and for many decades known as a loo, a toilet, the little room, rest-room, a Khasi, bog, a…well, you know.

Water Closet

I’m assuming for the sake of this post that you are male and in need of making full use of the facilities. I’ve only once used ‘the ladies’ and that was by mistake – the blobby ‘male’ ‘female’ cartoon outside the WC didn’t work for me. I escaped unscathed, wasn’t arrested, and curiously pleased that my stay hadn’t required me to read low-quality graffiti, and it smelt…different.

Back to the male urinals and cubicles.

First it seems more likely these days to have to join a queue awaiting your turn. Add to that the average length of use – which has similarly, and mysteriously, been extended – and there is a nervousness amongst the duly assembled. No-one speaks. Of course.

Time passes slowly and, finally, you’re the next one to find an open door. You hear the flushing and the shuffling inside cubicle 2 and, if you weren’t desperate before, your body seems to have taken over urging you onwards. The fella appearing from Cubicle 2 looks close to death, so you’re now very wary of Cubicle 2, but all is well.

Inside you long for a hook that isn’t hanging by one long screw so you can put you rucksack somewhere other than the floor or your lap.

And now your trouble begins.

There should be a law that demands of all citizens to leave at least a few leaves of the loo roll hanging for the next customer. Alas, things have ‘improved’ since the days when one could reach for a non-existent roll, the former resident presumably having taken it home for private use, or to throw on the football pitch, or whatever. Yes, things have improved. The rolls these days last about a millennium. So far so good. And they are security bolted into position. Only the ‘attendant’ (a term that doesn’t mean what it says – thankfully) has the on-line security code implanted on their DNA or held on a sub-cutaneous chip. However, can you find the beginning or the end of the roll? No. It’s worse than the cheapest sellotape.

No need to add anything?

This is why the average wait time for Cubicle 2 has risen to an astonishing 25 minutes. Occupants are reduced to twirling the massive inner roll clockwise then anti-clockwise several times before locating an end, but then it disappears once more. In exasperation, you consider tearing the roll and dealing with the consequences. Either way, if you’re a before and after gentleman, it all takes too much time. By the time you are ‘ready’, and lower yourself on the seat warmed by the previous occupant, your blood pressure now matches that of your treason to be there in the first place.

The minutes spent reducing the inner pressure are, as every fella knows, holy. You can commune with your Maker undisturbed. An oasis of privacy. Those are the precious 5 minutes of legitimate skiving in the working day, or savoured, away from family mayhem at home. It is a holy place to which we all retreat in times of need.

Shhhh…peace and quiet

In my house I cater for guests who need to fill those minutes with works of literature. A range of books from ‘What to do with Poo’ or Peter Cooke’s ‘Tragically I was born an Only Twin’ to Bill Bryson’s excellent book on Shakespeare is on a shelf just within reaching distance. Some have been known to occupy the bathroom for days on end. Washing-up can be avoided, chores postponed, and instead of the unmentionable noises, peels of laughter can be heard all the way to the end of the garden; I don’t know what the neighbours must think but there’s a limit to how much one can care.

Care, too, has to be taken not to lean back when one is in the sitting position. Not in my loo, I hasten to add but a 21st Century WC. Behind you is likely to be one or two black circles, buttons, recessed into the wall. If one or both are depressed whilst you are resting a noise, somewhat like a hovercraft or helicopter, builds to a crescendo as all the ‘contents’ in the loo are suddenly vacuum-pumped away. It’s best not to jump.

Your time now ended, rucksack retrieved, belt and zips checked you leave Cubicle 2 and advance to the wash basins or troughs or sinks. And now you are presented with an IQ test. Various unspoken questions arise, choking any sense of feeling at one with the civilisation you have already spent several decades trying to master. Simple questions like ‘Which is the tap?’ Or ‘Do I press this knob, or ‘twist that handle’ or just ‘stand still and wait for a miracle’? Actually, the final option can prove successful. Having blunted one’s wrist pressing the non-tap tap, a violet glow hits your open palm and, once a human hand is detected, a ration of liquid soap is dispensed onto your hand if you weren’t shocked by the light and withdrew your hand. Then water appears from another pipe and away you go. Your hands are now covered in soap and the water has stopped. Once resolved your hands are cleaned and on you go to battle with paper-towels, pull-down towelling, air-blades, up-turned air-funnels and the like. Arguments for and against the efficacy of each method to re-distribute pathogen microbes into the air cloud your mind until your hands, semi-dried, are withdrawn and you walk away, hoping that by the time you have to shake hands with someone they are reasonably dry.

How does that tap work?

The ordeal over, you move on to the nearest café to collect your thoughts and collapse behind a flat white and an almond slice.

At the café, you have time to reminisce and long for the average 1970s loo with all its imperfections but lack of mental strife.

All that was needed back in the day was the nous to nick some loo roll from Cubicle A before entering Cubicle B, to suspend your sense of smell for the foreseeable, ability to hover above the non-existent seat, and be fairly philosophical about the chances of finding a functioning flush. Any holes burnt into the side walls with cigarette lighters or pen-knives were no trouble, after all, there are various uses for toilet tissues beyond the normal. And one’s foot can be employed to keep the door closed if you’re embarrassed about being interrupted, the locks having been loosened maybe years before. The water in the sink, cold, was left on by previous occupants, occasionally flooding the floor, and soap hadn’t been invented.

Immune systems of the average 1970’s homo sapien was robust.