© Chris Port, 1994. All rights reserved.
Going to the toilet.
(The head of the loo-queue enters the toilet, locks the door, and assumes the position. The Narrator‘s observations are illustrated by appropriate actions).
Now that we’ve managed to return the toilet to its intended purpose, perhaps we can relieve ourselves in peace. But no. Just when you finally lock the door, stare at the wall, and prepare for bliss...
(There is hectic banging on the door, cries of “Hurry up mate” and “I was here before you”).
Now taking a slash is a deeply personal thing. It requires relaxation, contemplation, a certain sequence of muscle movements. The intrusion of a fist banging on the door interrupts this flow of consciousness. This leads to frustration and, of course, the more frustrated you get, the harder it is to pass water. The thing you’ve desperately wanted to do for almost fifteen leg-crossed minutes, one of the most natural functions of the human body, has become a physical impossibility. How could life be so cruel? What will everyone think you’re doing in there?
You commune with your innermost muscles, block out all rude distractions, imagine babbling brooks and maybe turn on a tap or two... And human nature takes its course. Of course the toilet won’t flush properly but this is a party after all. Personally, I tend to use the garden.
(Music and dancing).