I had a quiet day reading and drinking coffee (and then some beer - alcohol is great - how did I live without it) in cafes around town. I am reading "Money" by Martin Amis. I am quite enjoying it. Martin Amis is a character in it, even though it is narrated by someone else. I can't decide if this is arrogance or genius or most probably a mixture of both.
I had an embarrassing moment in the bagnos of one of the cafes. I had drunk a couple of cappuchinos and half a big bottle of water (and no beer at this point, I promise) and was quite desperate for the loo. When I got to where I had been directed there was only a female and a disabled toilet. As there was only one toilet in the cubicle and as a strong advocate of disabled rights, I thought it wouldn't matter if I popped into the ladies (in any case, the disabled loo was occupied). So that's what I did. I'd only be a second. Nobody would know. In nay case I have long hair and I have shaved properly for the holiday so I reckoned I could front it out.
I couldn't quite work out the lock and though I fiddled with it a bit, nothing seemed to happen. There was a button on the handle, but it didn't seem to move and then a bit of metal sticking out the centre which I fiddled with to seemingly no avail, so I just did the normal unlocked toilet thing and held on to the door with one hand and my old Jack the Dripper with the other. I finished my business in next to no time and washed my hands, as is hygienic and proud for having got away with my crime undiscovered reached for the handle again and turned it... but it wouldn't turn. I pressed the button, but it didn't do anything. I fiddled with the little bit of metal, pushing it this way and then that, but the door which ironically I thought had been unsecured was shut fast. I was imprisoned in a small women's toilet in a country where I didn't speak the language (beyond knowing that I was in "il bagno", but everyone else would soon know that too) and to add insult to injury, I was a man. Surely I would be able to free myself before my shame was discovered or at least to utilise something in the sparse restroom to slowly hack off my genitalia and fashion some kind of makeshift vagina, which would pass muster on a perfunctory examination if my liberator questioned my gender. But the door was not budging and no amount of pressing or pulling or hoping was going to help. Should I start banging and shouting and if so what was Italian for "Help, I am stuck in the ladies, and I am a lady and will give you a flash of my vagina to prove it as long as you promise only to look too closely!"? Presumably such a statement is possible, but I didn't know what it was. I had spent most of my time with the phrase book learning how to say, "I am allergic to condoms" which might prove an excellent excuse if I found myself in an amorous embrace with a local senorita. "Sono allergico ai preservativi" if you want to try it yourself.
I laughed to myself at my own predicament. A comedian stuck in a lavatory. It would be a fitting Hell for him to spend eternity in. A feedline and a punchline all in one. And in a women's lavatory, just in case the original premise was not amusing enough for you. Oh dear, what can the matter be?
I noticed a small window high above the cistern and considered trying to climb up there, but I wouldn't have fitted through even at the beginning of the holiday. I was either going to have to spend a few hours in there, keeping quiet, in the hope that I would die and so all my embarrassment would dissipate or I was going to have to be rescued and face the opprobrium that I deserved.
But how long would it be before I was missed? It could be days, weeks. I thought I should start drinking water out of the toilet bowl straight away just in case. Even though there was a sink in there. I don't trust that the tap water on the continent is totally hygienic.
As I rattled the door I heard a woman's voice inquiring in Italian, presumably asking if everything was OK, "Mi scusi," I started, before realising there was no where to go, "I am locked in the toilet." My voice trailed off, but I think she got the drift. "Una momento," she shouted. More than one moment later a man arrived and again I tried to explain what was going on, as if any explanation was required. The man went away and returned and soon the door opened and I saw the disapproving face of a cafe employee with a key in his hand. How I had managed to lock the door to that extent is beyond me. I thanked him, without looking him in the eye and shuffled back out to my table outside.
Luckily the ordeal only lasted maybe five minutes. It could have been a lot worse. But it was the only stress of an otherwise relaxing day. Mainly because I didn't try to drive anywhere.
Oh and don't forget to check out the Collings and Herring podcast on Friday. Even though I am away in Sicily and mainly trapped in toilets, you might be pleasantly surprised.
Oh and in case you didn't spot my corrected mistake the other day -
those posters are of course 3 for £10 (not £15, which would scarcely be a bargain).
