Royal Flush

A few more words about toilets--and then I promise to stop.
     On a visit to the National Railway Museum in York, England, Prince Charles revealed a facet of his personality heretofore unknown: In fourth place, after God, the Queen, and Camilla, His Majesty loves old toilets. Collecting antique loos is his hobby.
     At first glance his preoccupation with this underappreciated art form seems frivolous. Perhaps even--kinky. Why can't England's future monarch indulge in a respectable pastime such as collecting stamps? A stamp at least you can lick.
     But upon further consideration, I realize His Royal Highness is performing a public service in keeping with his station. By elevating the loo to a position of royal importance, His Majesty encourages his subjects to improve the quality of British plumbing to the point where every Englishman can be flushed with national pride.
     His interest in loos no doubt stems from his concern for the state of the British economy. Consider the number of jobs his hobby provides: He must employ experts to authenticate, polish, and restore his collection; a crew to swab and disinfect the "commodious" rooms in which they are displayed; another team (perhaps pub patrons) to test them on a rotating basis to ensure their proper functioning; and a security force to maintain crowd control and to prevent theft.
     Prince Charles, whose royal ancestry spans centuries, is a living symbol of Britain's colorful history. It is only fitting that his chosen hobby reflects his sensitivity to the past, for "old" is the the operative word to describe his collection. His highness dismisses the hip, color-coordinated models of today. He cares not for racing stripes or stenciling. The decadence of chrome controls and padded seats is contrary to his taste. Any old loo that was good enough for King George III in 1800 is good enough for the Prince of Wales and Edinburgh in 2011.
     In addition to wiping out unemployment and lifting the lid on national pride, Prince Charles has demonstrated an admirable empathy with his subjects. He who will one day wear the crown of England does not eschew the thrones of lesser men.
     After his coronation, I shouldn't be surprised to see other influences upon Great Britain resulting from his patriotic preservation of chamber pots. Perhaps even "God save the King" will give way to "Skip to My Loo."
     It won't be the first time Brittania waives the rules.

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To Pee or Not to Pee--That is the Question

I feel compelled to say a few words concerning public restrooms, about which there is so much to be annoyed.

Let me begin with the ladies' room at an upscale restaurant where the uniformed “attendant” sits in a comfortable chair all day not reading anything in order to be on her toes when I come in to indulge in a private moment. I then rinse my fingers, give her a smile, and opt for a duty free paper towel—despite the fact that she offers me a freshly laundered terrycloth square that will cost me money to use.  If, I hear you ask, preferring  a paper towel is a social faux pas, why even make it available? To reveal just what a cheap, déclassé clod you are, of course. Don't you know anything?

There is always—not a saucer, which invites change—a brandy snifter containing a dollar bill, strategically placed for maximum embarrassment should I opt not to contribute.

Now I know this woman has had a hard life.  She grew up in Columbia, where thieves would snatch her dentures if they could realize a profit. But here she is, with or without documentation, “working” in the USA—meaning she gets to sit all day in a clean environment wearing a uniform for which she has not paid, to panhandle me when I have to forgodsakes pee.  Give me a break.

            In about 1855, when I went to Europe with a college tour, I discovered that public toilet facilities in Italy (a civilized society that should have known better) and France (which did, but didn’t give a damn) were often little more than reeking holes in a wet cement floor. These became popular well before women wore slacks, which, before letting fly, had to be removed in order for one’s feet to be placed in the appropriate footprints—to the right and left of the pee hole. If their aim was Gallic (or Italic), they didn’t spray their ankles. 

Mine wasn’t, therefore I did.

            Somewhere in an old journal I kept a collection of European public toilet paper. The Germans may have given it away for free, but in the (a-hem) end I’d gladly pay for something better. Reynolds markets the same thing in this country as “wax paper.”  In my second most compromising position (right after the gynecology chair), I tried valiantly to employ this product as a wipe—only to find it creatively and malevolently non-absorbent. From then on, I always carried tissues in my purse.

            Part of my resentment about public facilities, whatever the country, stems from high school, when I had a temporary friend whose father had made millions. Since my father had not, this was a mark in her favor with me, a person always curious about how “they” lived.  She had a room with a pink telephone, a back yard with a swimming pool, and a cavernous house with a private screening room.  Mummy and Daddy possessed all the right memberships and occasionally included me in their family jaunts “to the club for buffet night.”  Nothing wrong with that. 

What was wrong, I would soon discover, was that her father made his millions by locking desperate mothers with toddlers, over-beered teens, and weary travelers out of the toilet unless they paid for the privilege. Yes, this man invented “Nickelock” (later “dimelock” and now, if it still exists, probably “dollarlock.”) Nobody in that family—my friend especially—had ever considered the basic inhumanity of this device.Remembering the times I crawled beneath the door because I couldn’t afford to pee, I dropped her like a stone.

            Every women using a public toilet assumes that at any given moment someone will reach over (or under) the door to swipe her purse while she’s in that “Ahhhhhh, thank God” stage of urination.  Thoughtfully, some male (who no doubt never peed while clutching his purse protectively) designed special purse hooks that prevent an easy snatch. But they are always anchored so high on the door that the emergency tissues in my purse can’t be reached while assuming the classic hover-squat mandated by my mother. (“Imagine the HIV, the leprosy, the genital warts you could bring home to this family!”)

            The most offensive public facility has to be the Port-o-let, which never has toilet paper and smells so vile that wetting one’s pants quickly becomes, um, the solution of choice.

            I, who grew up amid a bevy of brothers, have never envied males in any other way. But I must admit that when nature calls, their anatomical design makes life a lot easier. 

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