Dave on Public Restrooms

Public restrooms are the bane of neat freaks and the arch nemesis of the hypochondriac.  Disgusting, dirty, dreadful and terrifying, a public dunny that is run down, misused, abused, and neglected is also every OCD sufferer’s worst nightmare.  And so they should be – evidently, some people cannot discern a toilet seat from a bowl.   And they also seem completely oblivious to the concept of a flushing toilet.  Many may consider the definition of a toilet to extend beyond the bowl itself to include the cistern, the floor, the basin, the mirror, the cubicle walls, their shoes, their pants, the ceiling, the other toilet, the other urinals, their eyes, their nose, their mouth, their fellow patrons, the front door, etc., etc.  To put it briefly, these people like to piddle while doing the Twist.  I’m sure Chubby Checker would approve of their widdling habits.

But the sanitary habits of the lazy, the poorly coordinated and apathetic are only just one reason to avoid using public bogs.  I recently took a coach from Auckland to Te Awamutu from outside the casino in Auckland’s central business district.  Checking into the men’s restroom, I was shocked to find that the facility was in exactly the same state of disrepair as it was the last time I used the facilities, which happened to be many months prior.  Part of the front door was missing, the toilet roll holders had neither a cover nor the correct type of toilet paper – instead, sitting on top of the assembly which holds the proper commercial rolls was Budget brand single ply bog paper.  And to add insult to injury, it was also wet from being dropped in the bowl.  Lovely.  That also adds the potential for being stranded without dunny paper to the seemingly endless list of issues.

And let us not forget about the graffiti.  It was everywhere.  Even carved into the mirrors.  And it all consisted of bizarre messages of sorts – some of it consisted of people with dirty minds trying to be funny.  Some of the messages were actually funny.  Some of it involved caricatures of genitals.  And others involved a bloke called Steve offering his services.

Naturally you wouldn't offer the joint to the homeless for shelter, because if you did, you would end up blubbering your eyes out like a serial sook before an International Criminal Court beak in The Hague.  It was a disaster zone of scatological proportions.  But, thinking about things further, was there ever a redeeming feature of the place?  Well, yes there was.  The toilets actually worked.  And in a potential first for public restrooms, the locks functioned.  But it was obvious that the last time the place ever saw a maintenance man was when the place was first built, way back in 1997.  Blue moons come around more often than cleaners ever did.  Frankly, you’d be wise to avoid the place if you are ever in the area and in dire need to see a star about a twinkle.  Just stay outside and use the bush instead.