Possibly the best way of gauging what other people think of you and what social standing you are defined by in any given situation is to examine the lavatorial facilities available to you.
For example, if you visit your parents you will, likely as not, have free reign of the lavatorial facilities to the extent that, even though you don't live there you can act as if you did by using any or all of the facilities for whatever purpose pleases you. I guess the same happens if you visit a friend's house (after all friends are the family we choose). After that, things operate on a sliding scale. You may be visiting the wealthy parents of your latest squeeze in their extensive country mansion. For the purpose of the visit, which consists of polite conversation over tea and cucumber sandwiches, they may have designated that you use the downstairs lavatorial facilities. Only when you prove beyond doubt that you are possessed of royal lineage and that you are a rich and successful plastic surgeon or investment banker will they allow you upstairs to avail yourself of their more private ablutionary accoutrements. Eventually you may be given the guest room with it's own en-suite. But on that first visit you are only on the start of the ladder of social standing, given that the father is, at this point, twitching to go get his shotgun.
The commercial world treats us on similar principles. If you are staying at the Hiatt Four Seasons or the Westin St Francis, then you are afforded the highest status of toilet facilities, because you are paying what amounts to a decent down payment on most houses. If you are staying in a youth hostel on the side of a dusty hill in Faliraki, or the 'Friendly Motel' I once stayed at in Springfield Illinois, then the facilities will be less salubrious (even though the air conditioning in the youth hostel will probably be better than the emphysemic window mounted unit that the 'Friendly Motel' provides).
Of course, the worst toilet facilities on the planet are provided by Fast Food franchises, motorway service stations and Supermarket chains. Like every other 'service', they pretend they are providing you with a high class and personal experience when really they are trying desperately to save money, or rip money out of your account and into theirs. I am not saying that their facilities aren't clean, or spacious. What I personally object to is the idiotic design, which is wholly about cutting costs rather than providing a comfortable service. In fact, motorway services almost grudgingly provide toilets as an adjunct to selling you their criminally overpriced and pathetically small range of snacks, drinks etc.
Therefore we have to put up with warm air blowers instead of paper towels, one handed taps, neverending toilet paper and anti-tab end urinal protectors.
For an examination of the abject crapness of warm air hand driers I would refer you to Nicholson Baker, and specifically his novel The Mezzanine.He spends several pages of this tome detailing in minute detail his objections to them. His argument can be usefully summed up by me in two words: They're shit! Admittedly those words don't employ the writerly arts in as eloquent, charming and delightful a way as Mr Baker but I do urge you read his book.
One handed taps are the most moronic and insulting invention of all time. They beat warm air hand driers by a country mile. Of course, they are there for two reasons: to stop companies having to pay anyone to clean up on the rare occasion some moron leaves the tap running with the sink blocked , flooding the toilet area, and to impose portion control principles to water. I personally resent the fact that the assumption is that I am the vandal who will willfully block the sink with bog paper (if they can actually get to it. Neverending bog paper dispensers have two settings: a mechanism that is so tight and Scrooge-like that you wrestle with them for several minutes, causing them to eventually dispense half a sheet of paper that is so thin it makes Kate Bosworth look like John Goodman, or the mechanism is missing and you have to stick your arm inside them up to the elbow to try and get to the roll that is wrapped so tightly that the end has come free and pinged back inside. Once you have reached the actual roll of paper it is then tantamount to finding the end of a cheap roll of sellotape in order to unroll a sheet or two of paper) and leave the tap running in the middle of the night when nobody else is there to see, or turn off the tap. I am not that person. Secondly, portion controlling water is just mean and miserly. When I have paid 3 quid for a coffee, six for a pack of tabs, ten for three drips of petrol, 2 for a lukewarm bottle of water and another quid for a 'fun share bag!' of Quavers, I think I have done my part in paying being able to wash my hands under a running tap. Similarly in the Supermarket. I have just handed over a hundred pounds for my shopping, and in return you treat me like a vandal and don't allow me to wash my hands under running water.
On top of that, they don't work. Invariably several of the cheaply made and cheaply installed one-handed taps are broken, so they either emit a trickle that is barely a level above water vapour, or they emit a torrent of water you could hold an Olympic kayaking championship on.
But the worst thing is the anti-tab end urinal protector. The dome shaped item placed in the well of the urinal designed to deter people from dropping their tab ends into the urinal and causing a blockage. Except they aren't really designed for that. They are designed specifically to bounce back piss all over your trousers and shoes. Someone has designed these things: someone has marketed them and then someone has bought and installed them. Who are these morons? Why are they allowed to exist?
Anyway, I own this particular pair of summer trousers. They are light and comfortable, made of a very fine cotton that's almost like parachute silk. They are a light khaki green and go well with any casual summer ensemble. I like them. However, the fabric and colour are deeply unforgiving. Any splash of liquid on the light khaki green makes a very dark green splotch. On visiting the supermarket on a warm day, I was casually wearing my casual summer trousers and, as I had been quaffing cold drinks all day, needed to visit the toilet. I entered the supermarket's lavatorial area without a care in the world, unzipped and began doing what a man has to do. In my case it was to watch a fine spray of piss reflect back from the anti-tab end dome in the urinal onto the front of my unforgiving trousers.
When I had finished I went to wash my hands. it The first one handed tap was broken. The top was askew and it was emitting a pointless, useless dribble of water. I went to the second one. I pressed the top. What came out was a wall of water strong enough to wash away a small shanty town and maybe jet-wash a few cars. The rushing snake of water spurted up the side of the sink and splashed outwards, landing directly on the crotch area of my trousers, which, true to form, were deeply unforgiving.
A large dark green stain spread across the front of my summer trousers. It looked not only like I had pissed myself, but like I had been somehow force-drinking mysself for several days in order to attempt the world pissing record, and then pissed myself. I tried in vain to use the warm air hand drier to rescue my reputation and casual summer look. But it was out of order.
Holding my hand casually over the offending area I somehow made it out to the car without being arrested or having coach parties of tourists pointing and laughing at my supposed incontinence and went home without having done any shopping, or receiving forgiveness from my unforgiving trousers.
For example, if you visit your parents you will, likely as not, have free reign of the lavatorial facilities to the extent that, even though you don't live there you can act as if you did by using any or all of the facilities for whatever purpose pleases you. I guess the same happens if you visit a friend's house (after all friends are the family we choose). After that, things operate on a sliding scale. You may be visiting the wealthy parents of your latest squeeze in their extensive country mansion. For the purpose of the visit, which consists of polite conversation over tea and cucumber sandwiches, they may have designated that you use the downstairs lavatorial facilities. Only when you prove beyond doubt that you are possessed of royal lineage and that you are a rich and successful plastic surgeon or investment banker will they allow you upstairs to avail yourself of their more private ablutionary accoutrements. Eventually you may be given the guest room with it's own en-suite. But on that first visit you are only on the start of the ladder of social standing, given that the father is, at this point, twitching to go get his shotgun.
The commercial world treats us on similar principles. If you are staying at the Hiatt Four Seasons or the Westin St Francis, then you are afforded the highest status of toilet facilities, because you are paying what amounts to a decent down payment on most houses. If you are staying in a youth hostel on the side of a dusty hill in Faliraki, or the 'Friendly Motel' I once stayed at in Springfield Illinois, then the facilities will be less salubrious (even though the air conditioning in the youth hostel will probably be better than the emphysemic window mounted unit that the 'Friendly Motel' provides).
Of course, the worst toilet facilities on the planet are provided by Fast Food franchises, motorway service stations and Supermarket chains. Like every other 'service', they pretend they are providing you with a high class and personal experience when really they are trying desperately to save money, or rip money out of your account and into theirs. I am not saying that their facilities aren't clean, or spacious. What I personally object to is the idiotic design, which is wholly about cutting costs rather than providing a comfortable service. In fact, motorway services almost grudgingly provide toilets as an adjunct to selling you their criminally overpriced and pathetically small range of snacks, drinks etc.
Therefore we have to put up with warm air blowers instead of paper towels, one handed taps, neverending toilet paper and anti-tab end urinal protectors.
For an examination of the abject crapness of warm air hand driers I would refer you to Nicholson Baker, and specifically his novel The Mezzanine.He spends several pages of this tome detailing in minute detail his objections to them. His argument can be usefully summed up by me in two words: They're shit! Admittedly those words don't employ the writerly arts in as eloquent, charming and delightful a way as Mr Baker but I do urge you read his book.
One handed taps are the most moronic and insulting invention of all time. They beat warm air hand driers by a country mile. Of course, they are there for two reasons: to stop companies having to pay anyone to clean up on the rare occasion some moron leaves the tap running with the sink blocked , flooding the toilet area, and to impose portion control principles to water. I personally resent the fact that the assumption is that I am the vandal who will willfully block the sink with bog paper (if they can actually get to it. Neverending bog paper dispensers have two settings: a mechanism that is so tight and Scrooge-like that you wrestle with them for several minutes, causing them to eventually dispense half a sheet of paper that is so thin it makes Kate Bosworth look like John Goodman, or the mechanism is missing and you have to stick your arm inside them up to the elbow to try and get to the roll that is wrapped so tightly that the end has come free and pinged back inside. Once you have reached the actual roll of paper it is then tantamount to finding the end of a cheap roll of sellotape in order to unroll a sheet or two of paper) and leave the tap running in the middle of the night when nobody else is there to see, or turn off the tap. I am not that person. Secondly, portion controlling water is just mean and miserly. When I have paid 3 quid for a coffee, six for a pack of tabs, ten for three drips of petrol, 2 for a lukewarm bottle of water and another quid for a 'fun share bag!' of Quavers, I think I have done my part in paying being able to wash my hands under a running tap. Similarly in the Supermarket. I have just handed over a hundred pounds for my shopping, and in return you treat me like a vandal and don't allow me to wash my hands under running water.
On top of that, they don't work. Invariably several of the cheaply made and cheaply installed one-handed taps are broken, so they either emit a trickle that is barely a level above water vapour, or they emit a torrent of water you could hold an Olympic kayaking championship on.
But the worst thing is the anti-tab end urinal protector. The dome shaped item placed in the well of the urinal designed to deter people from dropping their tab ends into the urinal and causing a blockage. Except they aren't really designed for that. They are designed specifically to bounce back piss all over your trousers and shoes. Someone has designed these things: someone has marketed them and then someone has bought and installed them. Who are these morons? Why are they allowed to exist?
Anyway, I own this particular pair of summer trousers. They are light and comfortable, made of a very fine cotton that's almost like parachute silk. They are a light khaki green and go well with any casual summer ensemble. I like them. However, the fabric and colour are deeply unforgiving. Any splash of liquid on the light khaki green makes a very dark green splotch. On visiting the supermarket on a warm day, I was casually wearing my casual summer trousers and, as I had been quaffing cold drinks all day, needed to visit the toilet. I entered the supermarket's lavatorial area without a care in the world, unzipped and began doing what a man has to do. In my case it was to watch a fine spray of piss reflect back from the anti-tab end dome in the urinal onto the front of my unforgiving trousers.
When I had finished I went to wash my hands. it The first one handed tap was broken. The top was askew and it was emitting a pointless, useless dribble of water. I went to the second one. I pressed the top. What came out was a wall of water strong enough to wash away a small shanty town and maybe jet-wash a few cars. The rushing snake of water spurted up the side of the sink and splashed outwards, landing directly on the crotch area of my trousers, which, true to form, were deeply unforgiving.
A large dark green stain spread across the front of my summer trousers. It looked not only like I had pissed myself, but like I had been somehow force-drinking mysself for several days in order to attempt the world pissing record, and then pissed myself. I tried in vain to use the warm air hand drier to rescue my reputation and casual summer look. But it was out of order.
Holding my hand casually over the offending area I somehow made it out to the car without being arrested or having coach parties of tourists pointing and laughing at my supposed incontinence and went home without having done any shopping, or receiving forgiveness from my unforgiving trousers.
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