A new poll has shed light on our lavatorial proclivities.
According to YouGov, fewer than one in 20 wifies support the replacement of men’s and women’s loos with gender-neutral ones, not that I’ve heard of any plans for tandem tiddling in the Neest.
Can’t say I’m surprised to discover just 4% of females would be happy if restaurants, hotels, bars, theatres and concert stadiums scrapped their Ladies and Gents in favour of A’bodys. Most men are also agin unisex urinals, although the majority of folk agree creating ambi-sextrous units alongside the segregated ones should keep everyone happy.
I’d rather find a discreet bush than face some dire village concrete huttie that hums to high heaven
Mind you, combined loos would probably solve the long-running problem of answering the call of nature in places that are hoochin’. How many times I’ve found masellie in a show venue minutes before curtain-up or during a short interval, scuttlin’ to the cludgies to discover an oot-the-door queue.
By comparison, the Gents never get stowed oot – loons in and ootski in a coupla minutes. But no way, Jimmy, would I trade the convenience of no queues for my myriad imagined horrors of sharing bogs with unknown gadgies. Lines of guyos facing porcelain… gads!
I take pains to go before I go
Tell the truth, I’ve this ongoing phobia about public lavvies full stop. Canna stick ‘em. When I’m off out, I take pains to go minutes before I go, so I won’t have to go, before I go home. Yes, that often leaves me blastin’ in through the front door, literally burstin’ for the privacy of my ain privy.
If I’m oot-and-aboot the area for the whole day, I’d rather drive into the country and tootle aroon until I spy a discreet bush than face some dire village concrete huttie that hums to high heaven. I’m cowkin’ at the very thought.
“Going” publicly en route is a nightmare. In those airplane cubbie-holes I aye expect to be sooked into space doon that fearsomely whooshing hole. And I’m presuming mile high clubbers have to be affa skinny to qualify.
Train toilet trauma
As for the toilet trauma of trains… oot went the affa, sniffy varieties and bienvenue those French-style, automatic thingamajigs where you push buttons to activate. Came that fateful day I’d an urgent call en route from Glasgow to Aberdeen. To the automatic job-wheecher. Pressed button, door zoomed open and there, thankfully with his back to me, was a piddler. Ye Gods, I whirled round just as he keeked ower his shocked shooder.
“Sooo sorry,” I scraiked. “Me too!” Sez he.
The door zapped shut again. Seconds later, open sesame. Oot tottered my unfortunate stranger. Except, he was no stranger. Until a pucklie years before, we’d worked together on the EE for about two decades. A dear old pal.
We spent the rest of the journey reminiscing – and laughing. So thanks to a unisex lav for bringing us together again.
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