Since being a small child I have had a problem with frequent bladder use. I have to “go” quite frequently and, because of this, I am familiar with every public washroom in Oliver and Penticton. I bet that not too many people know that Penticton Walmart has three locations in the store.
This state of affairs is a big nuisance and all my friends joke about my problem, this doesn’t bother me any more but it was embarrassing when I was younger. I could never go on a long distance bus or train unless it had a bathroom and, on occasion, had to actually stop a bus and get off.
I remember once, as a child of nine or ten, when I accompanied my grandma on a longish bus journey. The bus stopped several times at various stops but, even so, I needed to go between stops. Grandma had previously had a word with the driver and he took pity on me and stopped along the road at one point, alongside a hedged field. Grandma held the wires whilst I climbed through the barbed wire fence but about forty pairs of eyes watched my journey and I just could not perform with all those people knowing what I needed to do. We got back on the bus with grandma’s lips in a very thin, angry line and sure enough, within a couple of miles I was desperate to go. I finished up with wet pants and a good smack. That was my last long distance bus ride until they started to have a washroom.
Another time, one of my uncles that I hardly knew, took myself and a cousin to the movies. This was a rare occasion and grandma drilled into what an honour this was and the need to behave. Of course, part way through the film I needed the bathroom. Too scared to ask this unknown relative to take me, I finished up lifting up my dress and going on the seat. A very damp, uncomfortable walk home afterwards but I thought I had got away with it until I saw the wet underpants that were now stained the bright red of the theatre seat. After a desperate attempt to wash the red out of the fabric failed, I had to admit my crime as I only owned a couple of pairs so I couldn’t throw them away.
I wet my bed until I was about twelve because I was too scared to get up in the dark. Nightlights were not used and there was no way we were allowed to leave a regular light on. The terrors of the dark room kept me in bed and the result was wet sheets in the morning. I don’t honestly know why an adult thinks any child would wet the bed intentionally, but there was always punishment that followed accidents.
As a parent, my eldest daughter had the same problem but when it was time for Dave and I to retire, I used to get her out of bed, walk her to the bathroom where she sat and did her thing, then back to bed. She never fully woke up during this whole procedure. Every few months, I would leave her all night, to see if she had grown out of it, but, like me, she did it until she was twelve, then all of a sudden it stopped.
When I was younger, stopping at gas stations was awful as the only washroom would be located behind a pile of old tires and would be filthy. The washbasin so stained with oil that it was better not to use it and, whilst crouched over the commode, there would usually be a poster of a scantily clad model posing by a car or motorbike.
Nowadays, service stations have state of the art washrooms along with a tempting variety of twenty coffees to go, to ensure that you need to stop again a few miles down the road.
Travelling in the US has always been fascinating. They seem obsessed with having toilet liners but their t.p. is usually a narrow strip of paper, no bigger than a postage stamp. Do they use up all their paper allowance on the seat cover and have to save funds on the size of t.p.?
Travels in Europe can be very challenging for the frequent user as very few stores in old villages have a facility. We usually end up going to a café where we have to buy a drink, which kind of defeats the purpose. Coffee and tea in Europe are usually quite expensive but the proprietors keep their washrooms for paying customers only. As the washroom is quite often on another floor, one cannot sneak in for a quick visit. One place we went had a washroom in the cellar, once you flushed, the entire seat rotated whilst a brush appeared from underneath and scrubbed the seat and bowl.
If a washroom is located in a village there is usually a matron in charge. Quite often she sits outside, usually knitting, and before you enter you need to give her a tip. If this is not done, you do not get t.p. as this is doled out, not kept inside the cubicle. However, these old fashioned facilities are usually spotless and usually have a vase of flowers, doilies, pictures and sometimes rag rugs on the floor.
In Kenya we came upon several places where a girl stood outside the toilet, you crossed her palm with the local currency and she would hand out the t.p. then, she went in after every user, sprayed a Lysol type cleaner around the bowl and wiped it down. Another place, in a very expensive treehouse kind of restaurant, had large Rubbermaid containers under the washbowls. You washed your hands and, as there were no drains, the water ran into the containers, which were then used to flush the toilets. Strange but functional!
In London, they have locked, freestanding washrooms, you put in your coin, the door opens and you enter a rather large steel room. After washing your hands and exiting, the room gets automatically washed with ceiling showerheads. Being cheap, several members of my family went in on one coin but we were terrified that the shower system would start up while we were still inside, as it took us quite a while for the three of us to use the facility. Other places in London have turnstyles that will not open unless you insert a coin, which is very annoying in airports, where you quite often do not have coins in the currency of the country.
Having a bladder the size of a walnut has it’s hazards but it does get me to see parts of the local scene that not everyone gets to experience. I think my most memorable was in Washington, on our way to visit my cousin. The need to go quickly resulted in us driving into a shopping centre with a burger chain. As I entered the café, several young girls were clustered round the entrance. I went in, got on with the job and then heard the girls enter the washrooms, tittering and laughing. Suddenly there was a bang on my door and I looked up in time to see a cell phone appear over the door. Apparently I had been photographed, in action! I am not sure what happened to my photo, probably it went on to some social media page. I guess fame comes in all sorts of ways, so remember to say cheese when relieving oneself in a public washroom.