Toilet Talk

Well it's time for another installment about my holiday in Cyprus. I know you're all still intrigued to know how I got on with the lavatory problems so let me tell you I managed to survive. It wasn't the ideal situation for a refined lady like myself but that decontamination suit worked wonders. Being fully prepared for the worst (including packing 3 packets of nappy sacks) I managed to cope with the horrors of cleaning up after 5 males. Not easy, I know, but then the drugs do help.

In fact the most memorable toilet experience I had was actually at Pathos airport where on entering The Ladies I found it was spotlessly clean with an attendant in residence. (An almost unheard situation in the UK.) This meant I could relax and upon entering the toilet compartment I could actually contemplate sitting on the loo seat and not adopting my usual squatting position.

Now I've often wished I had lovely long thin legs but when it comes to using public loos stout legs are a major advantage. For example I don't have to grip the loo roll holder for balance thus ripping it off the wall or call for the attendant because I've toppled over and trapped my head under the door. The disadvantage is that sometimes I forget to stand tall again and find myself walking around the shopping precincts like Quasimodo - Although this does have the less obvious benefit that I might pick up one of those lovely young gentlemen from the New Zealand Rugby team.



Apparently, The All Blacks Haka war dance scares the hell out of the opposition. I can see why because the thought of 15 grown men letting loose in front of me would be like finding out that Pierce Brosnan is a cross dresser. Mortifying.

By the way I should add that I don't do the Haka arm movements. (Unless there's no loo paper and I've hung my bag on the back of the door.)

Well back to the loos at Pathos airport. Well after getting up the nerve to actually sit on the loo (which was most comfortable) I thought I'd follow in the tradition of most men and sit there for a good half hour and let a queue form outside. I therefore pulled out my copy of Rugby Weekly and did the crossword.

Three Across. "You don't want to do it in Cyprus." Four letters. First letter S.

Hmm.... that's a tricky one.

So anyway after I'd done the crossword, whittled a boat out of the loo brush, ruminated about whether or not Kylie Minogue ever actually goes to the loo and regretted that I hadn't brought my pipe, I felt it was time to stop doing the male thing and make an exit. So I got up.

And then it happened!

No, no , no - I didn't give birth! Oh come on now, you didn't think I'm that stupid are you? Nope, I made sure I'd never give birth again after Master Benedict was born by booking the good Mr T an appointment with " The Butcher." And let me tell you that for a small sum of money and a tickle with my feather duster "The Butcher" does a very good job indeed. In fact he did it so well that for a while I thought that not only would the good Mr T never produce a little soldier again but also that he might never walk.

Kinda satisfying really.

Anyway, I stood up.... and the loo flushed.

I mean it flushed ALL BY ITSELF.

Well that was it - I was thrown into a major panic. What had I done or touched to make the loo flush? Or had I simply overstayed my welcome and been "Timed Out"? My God my imagination went into overdrive. I began to wonder if there was an invisible screen behind where the security guards sat...

" Hey, Johnny see that Brunette in No 9 she's been in there far too long. Let's flush her out."

I tell you, some times it's a major problem having a vivid imagination.

Anyway, I quickly realised that the Big Brother concept was a bit far fetched so I started to waver between an infra red beam and a heat sensor on the loo seat... Or maybe there was a pressure sensor on the loo seat? Or a timing device? Or maybe the loos were just haunted? Maybe some poor woman drowned in the loo by trying to get her granny knickers off in a hurry, tripping over them and wedging her head in the bowl? Maybe she wanders the loos at Pathos Airport seeking vengeance on women with quick release crotchless knickers?

That's not me of course. You'd never catch me in draughty knickers. I like 'em spot welded on with a padlock and key for extra protection. A girl's gotta feel safe you know, especially in high winds.

Anyway, I still haven't got a clue how it flushed. Does anybody know how these things work? If so please tell me.

Anyway, I gotta dash. To you know where. Need I say more?

See You Soon!

Ps The answer was "Spit." Really, did you think a nice girl like me would think of anything else:)