He stood there in solitude, uncertain and uncomfortable. Not actual solitude mind, the palace was packed, but it was as though, in his mind and awkward state of indecision, he was all alone.
Blue woollen jumper straight off the Marks & Spencer shelf, a checked shirt poking out the top and hanging out the bottom, the dishevelled look of chap who had reluctantly given in and allowed his wife to stock his wardrobe.
He had a paper with him, The Daily Mail, preciously hugged as though the world depended on its bold headlines and scaremongering drivel.
There were three comfort stations, porcelain thrones, wall-mounted in grimy glory. To the left, taken, to the right, taken, only the middle one was available, and when I say available, I mean at a squeeze.
Blue Jersey was haltering, he wanted to go, needed to go, but he knew the rules of male restroom etiquette. Always have at least one free urinal either side of you. But I had to go, City were playing Spurs, it was half-time and you know what beer is like. To take the middle urinal would violate protocol, you should always spread out. Everyone knows that, well, every man knows it, I can’t vouch for the female kind, but at least they know it now.
Eons ago the porcelain gods decreed, letting the universe know what was to be, setting in stone the restroom rules that we have today. I defied them, I had to. Besides, they don’t really exist do they? The porcelain gods I mean, this is a rational age after all. So I squeezed into the middle slot and defied the gods. Blue Jersey wasn’t happy as he clutched his paper for dear life, not only had I broken the rules but I had queue-jumped to boot.
And the porcelain gods? There’s nothing like a bit of punitive revenge.
Mind the step, the sign said, mind the step I didn’t.






Mo Reply:
May 10th, 2010 at 7:05 pm
Rude to ignore perhaps, but a bit of an oversight to end up with no paper, or to misjudge the amount of paper. But I’ll let you off.