I WAS sitting in a shopping centre stall – the toilet, for those who need a blunt description – minding my own business.
The gentleman to my left had eaten something which had unwired his stomach because it was being extracted at rapid pace, not to mention amplified volume.
I hesitate to cliche the poor old curry which seems to get the blame for all one’s dysentery.
Let’s face it. Reasons for a dose of the trots can be caused by food. Yet, for me, a curry is modern comfort food, whether it be an Indian, Thai or other available version of spicy nutrition.
Warmth for the soul, I like to say to Wanda who’s not quite the fan of a winter korma as myself.
Never mind, the guy to my left could have been on medicines, or failed to wash his hands after coming into contact with bacteria, or any other of hundreds of causes of the ensuing explosion.
Just lucky he got one of the three available stalls, I say. Things might have become an awful lot uglier had he been forced to wait in a queue as I’ve seen in some shopping centres, particularly on Boxing Day when people flock to sales that last three weeks into January.
Got a bad stomach? Don’t go to a Boxing Day sale. Or don’t eat beforehand. The choice is yours.
I do fear he may have been the last to occupy that particular stall, at least until some underpaid cleaner was able to pour disinfectant around the rim, followed by a high-pressured hose.
To my right, a phone rings. Fancy ring tone. The Rolling Stones “You can’t always get what you want”, which had me giggling as I continued to hold my short pants as close to my knees as I could, determined not to allow them to hit the wet floor beneath.
The guy answers. I won’t embarrass him by naming his company. But I swear, he answers with his name and the name of the firm he’s working for.
He then proceeds to cut a deal with the person who made the phone call. It only took a few minutes, but I’m hearing in the background signs of the reason he’s in stall number 3.
Surely the noise it’s making when it hits the water can be heard through the phone. If it can’t, the symphony from Stall number 1 is still echoing throughout the room, driven by porcelain acoustics.
Nevertheless, long live the deal. Wrapped up. Signed, sealed and still to be delivered, according to a farewell promise. “Be done in a couple of days,” he says.
I’m not normally one to eavesdrop, but it’s hard when someone’s elevating their octaves to cover the noise of bombs from their under-carriage.
I started thinking to myself which scenarios of modern-day human interaction couldn’t wait 3-4 minutes for a return call. And to think, we are probably embarrassed to admit to the person we’re calling back the exact reason we couldn’t get the phone call in the first place.
“Oh, just dropping off my lunch,” said nobody ever.
If it was Wanda and I’d just told her I was entering the men’s room, I may answer the call. But I wouldn’t be responding. I’d click the green answer button and wait for the ensuing emergency to unfold, to determine whether I’d have to stop what I’m doing to call an ambulance.
We have an agreement that if she’s changing the designated meeting point, that’s the type of information which can – under the current circumstances of urgency – be delivered via text message.
In fact, I was stuck for an answer to my predicament. In the days we used to send messages to each other on paper, we’d wait days for a response. I understand the world’s changed, and I too like a more immediate communication pattern brought by the phone, internet and associated technologies.
But 3-4 minutes won’t matter. Nobody will mind. Your business can wait until your … er, business … is finished.
So I’ve come to the conclusion that answering the phone in the stalls is a social faux pas, never to be done. Not ever.
Hey Wanda, I need to run to the loo. Can you please hold my phone?
