The toilet trap
London is rubbish. I hate London. The greatest city in the civilised world is home to the most uncivilised, rude and pushy citizens you'll ever find! Anyway, here is the lead up to this little outburst...
I've yet again fallen into the toilet trap, a conundrum encountered during my trips chez parents (this time for my father's wedding), generally on the return leg. I leave in a hurry, with no desire to use the toilet pressing enough to delay my departure, and jump on a bus to London Victoria. To give you a visual, this particular Sunday evening I am wearing black high-waisted trousers that give me a permanent wedgie (back and front), a little red vest top (absence of bra notable in chilly drizzle and hurried gait), a scabby old cardi and a bright red shiny mac. Adorning my shoulders are no less that three large bags, stuffed with shoes, clothes, camera and general dross I probably didn't need to take. Finally, one arm is dragging a medium-sized (stuffed, obviously) suitcase. I already mentioned the weather, but I'm British, and it was so vile, I'll mention the rain again.
Back to the toilet trials. On the bus - no real need to wee, the facilities minimal, the journey relatively short, so I don't bother. We reach Notting Hill Gate and my bladder starts to speak up. But that's ok, we'll be at Victoria soon - I'll go there. Arrive at Victoria, am pushed about and generally unhelped by the shovey masses between the bus stop and the train station (including one revolting individual sneezing into the gutter in front of me) - a train in 20 minutes, excellent, I can go to the toilet.
It's 30p. 30p, to use the loo. I have 12p. Ok, cashpoint - take out money, after which in attempting to move out of the way for the next user I knock my case over. The charming young man waiting behind me does not attempt to help, does not even wait for me to stagger to the floor and retrieve the offending item of luggage, instead walks around the other side of me to gain access!
Anyway, now I need to break my tenner. Coffee is the obvious choice for a tired caffeine addict en route such as myself. So off I totter to the nearest stall. £1.70, perfect, giving me £7 and 30p change to enter the ever more appealing facilities. Approaching the turnstiles, however, the prospect before me gives my bladder renewed strength. Not only will I have to contend with dragging four bags and a cup of coffee through the teeny gap, and find a spare hand to put the money in the slot, but there's stairs, there's a lot of people, the cubicle will barely contain my several burdens - and now I've spent so much time dithering that I've only got 13 minutes left until the train leaves. A lot to accomplish in such a short space of time. The platform is announced, sealing my fate - it's the especially far platform, reserved for the tired ones with a lot of stuff. I'll go to the loo on the train, with no worries about missing it...
A brief meander back to the London awfulness - attempting to reach the platform, I balance my coffee and case in one hand to proffer my ticket, but I can't get through due to those exiting the platform being much more important than me. The lady at the gate gets testy and says come on, come through love - whilst of course making no attempt to assist by creating a break in the flow of traffic. Eventually I make it past, holding out my ticket for her to see - 'you'll need to keep that love'. Honestly. Why do I even bother.
Coffee spilled on case, disgruntled and full of unnecessary liquids, I board the train. So now I can relieve myself in peace. But hang on... what about my bags? I can't leave them! My worldly belongings might be plundered for the sake of a happy bladder - oh! The tribulations. Not to mention the cup of diuretic yet to drink. (Whose brilliant idea was that?)
Looks like I'll be spending another trip in a state of beladen chaos, frustrated, pissed off, and bursting for a wee.
I've yet again fallen into the toilet trap, a conundrum encountered during my trips chez parents (this time for my father's wedding), generally on the return leg. I leave in a hurry, with no desire to use the toilet pressing enough to delay my departure, and jump on a bus to London Victoria. To give you a visual, this particular Sunday evening I am wearing black high-waisted trousers that give me a permanent wedgie (back and front), a little red vest top (absence of bra notable in chilly drizzle and hurried gait), a scabby old cardi and a bright red shiny mac. Adorning my shoulders are no less that three large bags, stuffed with shoes, clothes, camera and general dross I probably didn't need to take. Finally, one arm is dragging a medium-sized (stuffed, obviously) suitcase. I already mentioned the weather, but I'm British, and it was so vile, I'll mention the rain again.
Back to the toilet trials. On the bus - no real need to wee, the facilities minimal, the journey relatively short, so I don't bother. We reach Notting Hill Gate and my bladder starts to speak up. But that's ok, we'll be at Victoria soon - I'll go there. Arrive at Victoria, am pushed about and generally unhelped by the shovey masses between the bus stop and the train station (including one revolting individual sneezing into the gutter in front of me) - a train in 20 minutes, excellent, I can go to the toilet.
It's 30p. 30p, to use the loo. I have 12p. Ok, cashpoint - take out money, after which in attempting to move out of the way for the next user I knock my case over. The charming young man waiting behind me does not attempt to help, does not even wait for me to stagger to the floor and retrieve the offending item of luggage, instead walks around the other side of me to gain access!
Anyway, now I need to break my tenner. Coffee is the obvious choice for a tired caffeine addict en route such as myself. So off I totter to the nearest stall. £1.70, perfect, giving me £7 and 30p change to enter the ever more appealing facilities. Approaching the turnstiles, however, the prospect before me gives my bladder renewed strength. Not only will I have to contend with dragging four bags and a cup of coffee through the teeny gap, and find a spare hand to put the money in the slot, but there's stairs, there's a lot of people, the cubicle will barely contain my several burdens - and now I've spent so much time dithering that I've only got 13 minutes left until the train leaves. A lot to accomplish in such a short space of time. The platform is announced, sealing my fate - it's the especially far platform, reserved for the tired ones with a lot of stuff. I'll go to the loo on the train, with no worries about missing it...
A brief meander back to the London awfulness - attempting to reach the platform, I balance my coffee and case in one hand to proffer my ticket, but I can't get through due to those exiting the platform being much more important than me. The lady at the gate gets testy and says come on, come through love - whilst of course making no attempt to assist by creating a break in the flow of traffic. Eventually I make it past, holding out my ticket for her to see - 'you'll need to keep that love'. Honestly. Why do I even bother.
Coffee spilled on case, disgruntled and full of unnecessary liquids, I board the train. So now I can relieve myself in peace. But hang on... what about my bags? I can't leave them! My worldly belongings might be plundered for the sake of a happy bladder - oh! The tribulations. Not to mention the cup of diuretic yet to drink. (Whose brilliant idea was that?)
Looks like I'll be spending another trip in a state of beladen chaos, frustrated, pissed off, and bursting for a wee.