things move around

London’s posh bog made the TV news recently, here in this forgotten cranny of the Americas. For five quid, any woman can wazz into a sweet-scented bowl while contemplating fresh blooms in a spacious, spotless cubicle, before receiving a sensuous hand-massage by way of adieu, all the while bathing her spirit in the luxury of the latest lab-generated chillout muzak. And ghastly as that sounds, it still beats squatting in a dingy cloacal ginnel, as the ladies of London have hitherto been obliged should their decency revolt (as it certainly should) at the prospect of the middens which pass for public conveniences in that city.

So, yes, a fine idea. As a man not living in London, I’m even more envious of women living in London than I was before. They are, after all, everything I am not, and now they can relieve themselves in ways I can only dream of. I note however that the posh bog closes at 9 o’clock on a Friday night, so after that time I expect my jealousy to moderate to its usual level. Actually I don’t understand why they’re not open later; surely this is a lost opportunity? If there is one time they ought to be opening, it’s two till three thirty in the morning, not only primetime for pissing but also for emptying the stomach of excess alcopops, sticky liquers and zinfandel. If I were WC1 I would be taking appointments: “That will be lovely, Miss Slapperton. We’ve got you booked in for two twenty at the loo and half past for the vomitarium. See you Friday!”

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On a plane this morning. I was in the aisle seat, trying to hold back my rage and contempt for the ungracious (from his one-word drinks order) suit in the window seat, whose fingers didn’t stint from fondling his blackberry for the entire flight, except to conceal it from the flight attendant on the pre-take off and landing checks. But that wasn’t the reason for my seething animosity: I have come to loathe whoever I sit next to on planes. It doesn’t matter who it is, what kind of a person, how amiable or otherwise the disposition, I find them contemptible from the moment they settle in. I have no explanation for this species of enmity; I’ll have to think about it some more.