I debated whether I should tell this tale – for a number of reasons – but I can’t help myself.
It is such a perfect example of the ridiculous situations I personally create almost every day, and I can’t understand why I appear to be the only one.
I should start this by saying that despite the fact we are all human beings, and we all have certain bodily functions in common, there are a good few we like to keep behind closed doors or we’re embarrassed about.
Intrigued? Read on.
I can’t remember where we were – my friends Carol, Lynne and I – I think it was a restaurant, and we were waiting for a flight. Anyway, wherever we had plonked ourselves for a while, the establishment only had one unisex bathroom. Hey, I don’t have any issue with that. What savvy woman hasn’t ditched the long lineup at the Ladies to sneak in the door to the empty Gents on a busy night at the club?
At some point, I decided I would visit the facilities. I opened the door, and was already inside when I realised that the person before me might have had some tummy trouble. The bathroom itself was perfectly clean, but the interior walls of the toilet bowl resembled a flock of starlings. Now I was stuck. If I immediately left the room and there was someone waiting outside, they would attribute nature’s artwork to me. Why should I care? I shouldn’t have, but I was being a silly person.
Maybe the toilet just needed another flush. I tried it. Strike two. Nothing budged. Perhaps the culprit had ingested some epoxy by mistake. I tried the flushing plan again. Three times a charm? Nope.
By now, I had made things worse. I had been in there for at least five minutes, so if there was anyone waiting at the door, they’d automatically assume I had something medical going on.
In desperation, I looked around to see if there were any products in sight that could help me. If not, I’d just have to go the confident route – stride out and announce, “Cabbage, am I right?” while tapping my stomach.
Luckily, in the cupboard under the sink, next to spare toilet rolls and extra hand soap, there was a bottle of Soft Scrub. Perhaps if I squeezed a goodly amount of that into the bowl, waited a few minutes (in for a penny, in for a pound), THEN flushed, it could make a difference.
I grabbed the bottle, turned the cap to the ‘open’ position, and pointed it in the direction of the toilet. I promise – I am not making this up – when I tell you that the dispenser tip ‘farted’ Soft Scrub over my face and clothes. It wasn’t a lot – I wondered in my shock if perhaps it hadn’t been used for a while and there was a bit of dried product that had been blasted loose. I wiped it away quickly. At least it killed 99.9% of germs; my skin could do worse. After that, the dispenser squirted smoothly at its target. I lathered that bowl with the stuff, then stopped my assault, put the bottle on the sink and waited.
At the same time, my face began to itch a bit, then burn a little in areas. I looked at the mirror, and there were tiny red blotches showing up everywhere. Even better, the black top I was wearing (my default colour) had spots of brown appearing. Being completely unfamiliar with this particular brand of house cleaner, I wasn’t aware of its ingredients. Yet there they were, printed right on the label, including “WITH BLEACH”. I washed my face immediately, kissing all my well-applied makeup goodbye. I also doused my top in water, but it was too late to save it. I wondered if they sold black Sharpies in a nearby store?
So, with my red, blotchy face and a bleach-damaged top, I had now spent the better part of 20 minutes in that toilet. The only good news is that anyone who might have been waiting outside probably would have given up by now. Why my friends hadn’t come to check on me to see if there was something serious up is a question that still haunts me every day of my life (cue the dramatic musical score).
It was the moment of truth. I pressed down the handle, and let the flushing mechanism do its thing. Would the Soft Scrub save the day? Know what? It didn’t make a blind bit of difference. That thing needed a toilet brush or some sort of metal spatula. I gave up.
I washed my hands for the 50th time, opened the door, and prepared to greet my fate. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
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