Friday, June 01, 2007

Wipe Out

I don't recall every consciously thinking it, but I suppose that when I was younger, I must have had an expectation that at some point in my life, I would have faced just about every possible embarrassment that the world has to offer, and come through smelling of roses. Today I learned that life is ever-inventive in its approach to developing new ways to colour my cheeks with the palette of shame.

I was on my way home from a brief trip to Glasgow. I stopped in at the gents to drop one off before going through security - you never know when they'll do a cavity search these days.

I don't make a habit of dropping the toilet paper, but it does sometimes happen that somewhere from hole to bowl, the kitten-soft layers go astray. It could be a badly aimed toss, an insufficiently strong grip, or the distraction of someone waving their noo-nah through a whole in the wall. Not that such things happen very often these days, and certainly not in our lovely, shiny airports.

Whatever the reason, the used bit of looroll sometimes ends up on the floor. Like accidentally tumbled toast, you probably don't want a used chunk of s*wipe landing buttered side down. Or Marmite, if you really want to take the analogy just a little too far.

Although I have lost the rag in this manner before, it was a novelty for such an event to take place in a cubicle featuring a large gap at the bottom of the partition that separates the supplicants to Cloacha from each other. The kind of place that featured heavily in my early, and with retrospect misguided, attempts to find Mr Right. (At the time, it was obvious to me that Mr Right would also sit in public toilets tapping his foot and sliding it closer to the tapping foot in the next booth along.)

It gets worse. My runaway Andrex puppy falls to the floor, landing face-up to expose where I had dabbed my lips. Man, that was one chocolatey cappuccino! Not only is it fully visible to the boy next door, but it has the audacity to land mostly on his side of the partition, making it almost impossible for him not to have seen it; and even if his eyes had not been drawn to its sudden appearance, the quick scrabble under the partition that I was obliged to perform would have made certain that my shame was exposed to his presumably disgusted gaze.

I'm just relieved (sic) that I managed to flush and run before he did, and lose myself in the crowd outside the door (it being a busy airport loo) before he could identify the culprit.

And there I've gone and increased my tally of log blogs. *tsk*

12 comments:

Tickersoid said...

Good story beautifully told. I feel emotional.

Seriously, I don't think that's ever happened to me. OK the noo-nah gloryhole event maybe but not the 'skid out of my parking space' thing.

CyberPete said...

I would have to agree with Tickersoid on this.

The marmite toast thing never happened to me either.

Funny story though, priceless!

My heart goes out to you of course in these troubled times. Thank god you did manage to flush and run though.

Inexplicable DeVice said...

Oh, I love a good Poo Post, and yours didn't let me down!

Al said...

Perhaps you should have gone for the bolder move of picking it up and hurtling it towards the polystyrene ceiling tiles letting out a Napoleon Dynamite style "yessssssss" when it stuck before walking out bold as brass?

Nick said...

Where as in some London establishments, waving a sh*tty piece of toilet paper around merely informs people of which colours you're in to... Thanks goodness it was the airport and not downstairs at Central Station!

Qenny said...

tickersoid: I thought I had covered all the possible lines, but "skid out of my parking place" - nice one!

cyberpete: If I hadn't managed to flush and run, it would have been such an indignity. Like being caught wiping one's arse. Is there any less dignified thing to be caught doing?

IDV: Delighted to be of service! BTW, I'm back up in your neck of the woods for the next couple of weeks. Yay! Sunshine!

al: I'm not sure I would have the nerve; or that the used piece would have sufficient tackiness to make sure it stayed stuck to the ceiling. I wouldn't want that falling back down on my head!

nick: They don't, do they? Why? Have people stopped making brown bandanas to stick out of their back pockets>

First Nations said...

i've noticed handkercheif code references seem to be making a reappearance round the blogs lately. this kind of thing can only lead to platform shoes and olivia newton john, you know.

La Muck said...

Oooh I blushed a little reading that... Nice escape, and nicely written =D

Nick said...

They don't, do they? Why? Have people stopped making brown bandanas to stick out of their back pockets

Well I guess it kills two birds with one stone doesn't it... you make your own bandana and it just so happens to be made of the very thing you're into... quite clever really.

JP said...

Ha! Fantastic, you made my night...which is sad now that I come to think of it.

Brian Sibley said...

It's hardly surprising that what happened happened if you were shi---- sorry, sitting on that loo seat you pictured! ;-)

Qenny said...

first nations: you want to tread lightly if you're suggesting there would be anything wrong with an Olivia Newton John revival. My Lovely Husband™ is a big fan.

la muck: why thank you m'lady.

nick: efficient. Unpleasant, but efficient. I remember the days when I used to think that being into scat meant you liked Cleo Lane ...

jp: sad, perhaps, but I'm happy I was able to do that for you, petal.

brian: don't - you're making me think of phrases like "the rim of the toilet bowl". Not an image I wanted in my head, so best thing for it was to put it in the heads of anyone else who reads this (and has more than one head).