Almanac Memoir: The Loo, the Lavatory, and me – Reflections and Meditations from the Smallest Room

 

 

(Contemplating which one to use at the d’Arenburg Winery in McLaren Vale

(souce: author)

 

This piece has its genesis in a recent conversation with my friend Brian at the monthly ‘Sleepy Hollows Blues Club’ event at the Bareena Bowls Club in Geelong. We had both commented about the club’s excellent toilet facilities (I assure readers that the breadth of our conversation went far wider than the subject of toilets!). Secondly, it also follows a recent episode of the ABC’s ‘Antique Roadshow’ where an attendee brought along Queen Victoria’s actual toilet seat for expert analysis.

 

At this point readers may well ponder: ‘What the hell is this piece all about?’ ‘Is Allan’s mind going down the toilet writing this crap? ‘He obviously has nothing much else to write about?’ ‘He should be given a toilet roll for his next birthday accompanied by some nice smelling air spray with hand wash!’ Well, ponder on, dear readers.

 

What follows is part memoir and part reflection interspersed with personal views and the occasion rant.

 

Turns out the word ‘toilet’ is an interesting term.  It’s a word that up until now I have never needed, or felt inclined, to research. Having now done so, I have noted a consistent definition: ‘…a fixed receptacle into which a person may urinate or defecate, typically consisting of a large bowl connected to a system for flushing away the waste into a sewer” or, it is ‘the process of washing oneself, dressing, and attending to one’s appearance’ as in ‘her toilet completed, she finally went back downstairs’.

 

Depending on the country, region, cultural norm, social class, and local vernacular, the word toilet can also be referred to as the ‘can’ the ‘loo’, the ‘bog’, the ‘dunny’ or the “privy”.  For most of my life, it has always been the toilet or the loo and when I was younger the lavatory.  Depending on where I am at the time and the company, I have also used the term ‘bathroom’. As a younger man in the Northern Territory, ‘dunny’ was certainly a popular term.  Indeed, ’dunny’ is very much a part of the Australian vernacular.

 

I have read that a ‘lavatory’ is a place where you wash your hands, and a ‘toilet’ is a lady’s boudoir. Of course, in reality both these terms are used as euphemisms for any of the terms I have referred to above, and in that sense, they are synonyms. I have been told that in the UK when dealing with hoity-toity upper class one is expected to only use words they approve of, such as lavatory, otherwise you are immediately classified.

 

To demonstrate. In the following passage of author Jeffrey Archer’s ‘Be Careful What You Wish For’, an IRA gangster gives direction to his underling, aboard a newly commissioned luxury liner they plan to destroy on its maiden voyage:

‘Can you remember where the public toilet on deck six is’?

 

‘It’s on the far side of the first–class lounge. And by the way old chap, it’s a lavatory, not a toilet. That’s the sort of simple mistake that could get me caught out. Don’t forget this ship is typical of English society. The upper classes don’t mix with cabin, and the cabin classes wouldn’t consider speaking to those in tourist’ (Ref: page 439).

 

In the passage, the speaker is referring to a class distinction in the usage of the words. In essence, he is saying that an upper-class (hence upper-deck) Englishman would never use the crass word toilet, he would always use lavatory. To use toilet in his view, marks one as being lower-class (lower decks).

 

It seems that lavatory and toilet are not always synonymous.  In the USA lavatory means the room, while the toilet is the fixture. In public venues such as schools or stadia, the room is sometimes called a lavatory, but in restaurants and other establishments it is usually called the restroom (clearly a euphemism). In someone’s home, it is the bathroom (another euphemism). So, in the USA, only the fixture is called a toilet. A friend who has spent considerable time in the good ole USA informed me that you would be considered a yokel in most parts of the country if you asked to use the toilet.

 

For the sake of this paper, and my sanity, I use the word toilet both as a synonym and a euphemism to cover off all the other terms!

 

When I was a lad I spent a lot of time at my paternal Grandparent’s house. Their outside toilet was a bit of a haven for me. It was just a short walk from the rear of the house across a concrete slab. It was old, made of concrete with a vine growing over its top from a lattice that partially hid the entrance. The door was wooden and always needed repairs, repairs that never seemed to eventuate. The lock consisted of a hook latch between the door and the inside wall.

 

I had many joyous hours there using it as a cubby house, sitting and thinking, sitting and reading comic books and then books, sitting and hiding, sitting and making my shanghai and accompanying staples from fencing wire to fire at the next door neighbour’s awful cats and the blackbirds and starlings digging in my Grandfather’s garden.

 

I don’t know what it was but there was something comfortable and secure about that toilet.  I felt like I was secreted away from the world in my own little posse.  I didn’t always have my pants down or fly undone.  I just sat on the full seat and did what I did, and for lengthy periods.

 

I was hardly ever disturbed except occasionally when my Pop would venture out of his shed or from the garden to ask: ‘what the hell are you doing in there’?  ‘Are you all right’?  I always replied that I was. I remember my Grandmother asking me only once if I would mind vacating my posse because she ‘really needed to go’.

 

In later life I can now look back in envy remembering that Pop didn’t really seem to go to the toilet all that often, not when I was hogging it anyway.  He must have had a healthy prostate or it was simply just good country living.

 

My maternal grandmother’s outside toilet in Newcastle, NSW, was also old and comfortable, though I didn’t spend hours in it.  On occasion her pet turtle, which lived in a pond close to the toilet, and which used to get out and wander about the courtyard at will, would venture under the toilet door and stop and stare up at me as I stared back and talked to it.  I used to wonder what the turtle was thinking.  It seemed to enjoy watching me sit there. Maybe it enjoyed our conversation.

 

Apart from my grandparents’ toilets my other early memory of a toilet is of the one on the veranda of our house.  Outside, but not really outside.  While it was conveniently placed near the bedroom my brother and I shared, I never bonded with it. It was old, not terribly private (one could be easily heard!)  and not really inviting except when needed.  There always seemed to be something wrong with it.  The pull down flush chain, the pipes and so on. Also having tom thumb firecrackers, dead birds and other paraphernalia cast under the door by my siblings was not fun.

 

Another early toilet memory is from Grade 1 when I was severely constipated and couldn’t do the deed.  My anguish and sobs were reported by ‘Jack’ from the other cubicle and Miss (can’t remember her name?) had to come to the rescue exclaiming in exasperation ‘I’m not trained for this.  I don’t know what to do’!  After getting me to stand up and sit and then with a bit of her shaking I was finally able to dislodge the problem, much to her satisfaction and very much to mine.  It was a tough gig for a young primary school teacher. I’m more embarrassed now in memory than when I was five years old.

 

Growing up there are three things that my mother, a former nursing sister, taught me about toilet etiquette that have stayed with me. First and foremost: wash my hands after visiting the toilet. Second: do not read material while sitting in the toilet that others may wish to read later (it drove my mother crazy when my father did this with the weekend newspapers).  Thirdly: always put the seat down. She also emphasised that toilets and bathrooms must always be the cleanest rooms in the house.

 

I am sure these lessons in toilet etiquette are responsible for my discomfort around those who do not wash their hands after toileting and for my dislike of public toilets. I don’t like to think I’m anal about it, but I’m also careful about eating finger food from bars and tables in pubs or clubs, or even when at a friend’s house, unless I get first grab at what is available. You don’t know which person in proximity has just toileted without washing their hands.

 

The famous Jack Dyer’s, aka Captain Blood, advice to emerging Richmond players in the day was: ‘Don’t be where the ball ain’t’ – (book of Jack Dyer sayings edited by Joe St John). But, invariably, like many footballers we are caught out sometimes being somewhere, not where the ball ain’t, but in our case, where a toilet ain’t. When you search and struggle to find one while tightening your pelvic floor and loosening your belt, is one of life’s most inconvenient situations. Worse still, is to find a dirty, insect infested, toilet with no paper or tap that works, or the toilet has been left filthy by an earlier user. In such situations one has no choice, beggars can’t be choosers. But the relief is stupendous.

 

In my experience it is rarer than not to find a clean, fully functional, well stocked men’s public toilet.  It can be exhilarating to discover one. In some places, to find a public toilet can be a difficult and at times a desperate measure.  Take New York for example.  The lack of public conveniences is staggering, which is why at peak hours you see Americans queueing at coffee shops, not only for the coffee, but for the code for the one and only toilet which also has a queue.  Between peak hours one also has to contend with the lineup of tourists and visitors to the ‘Big Apple’.  I presume that the public convenience shortage has to do with drug addicts, sexual miscreants of all persuasions and terrorists – tick all of the above I guess.

 

Railway stations and pub toilets are particularly anathema to me but of course and inevitably, one usually doesn’t have a choice but to use them.

 

Speaking of railway stations; I recall once standing at the very busy men’s urinal at Flinders Street Railway Station when the gentleman standing next to me dropped his phone into the urinal. From his top pocket it seemed. Without staring at him (not done in men’s toilets) I left him standing there looking down, obviously pondering on what to do. As I walked towards the wash basin I imagined his conflicting thoughts: Do I pick it up or just leave it’? ‘Should I grab some paper towelling or toilet paper to wipe it’? (good luck finding any), ‘Is it damaged can an expert resuscitate it’? I have wondered sometimes what he might have done.

 

When living in Canberra during the 1980s, I used to attend the annual Bong Bong picnic races near Bowral.  Boy, the gent’s toilet there was special. A line of pickets to which was attached some hessian bagging with a long metal tray at the bottom, appropriately lipped to avoid spillage (unsuccessfully).  While relieving themselves men could peer over the top and enjoy the races and all else in approximate sight, especially those of a female disposition. You can imagine how the hessian bagging looked after several hours of use on a hot day and many cans of beer consumed by male patrons – no hand washing etiquette here!

 

Another toilet story I can recite is about the time I was in the men’s cubicle on board the ‘Spirit of Tasmania’ listening to two biker mates chatting while attending to their needs at the urinal. Why he chose the timing is anyone’s guess, but one of the men decided to tell the other (his best mate – then!) that he had been having an affair with his wife for twenty years. No confrontation, just severe explaining and questioning with utter disbelief. The friend having the affair told his best mate that he was doing his marriage a favour because his wife was lonely and he hadn’t been looking after her right!! One can only wonder what may have transpired later on once the boat docked.

 

I came across the following story which may be indicative of some social interactions today and the use of both synonym and euphemism for toilet:

‘My Dad was Scottish. He would use the word lavatory to refer to the toilet usually when in mixed company, around ladies or in a public setting, when asking for the men’s room location. For example, while at a wedding reception, while in church, or I remember one time he told a bus boy that the toilet in the restroom needed attention, but when the female manager came over, he told her the lavatory needed to be cleaned’. (This quote was posted by a user named John Baxter on the English Language & Usage Stack Exchange on January 19, 2018).

 

The toilet, or whatever you may call it, is something you cannot avoid using in the modern world. Wherever you are, and whenever the need arises, you will eventually have to use one, regardless of its condition. And the satisfaction of a successful urination or defecation when, quite frankly, verge on the orgasmic.

 

Read more from Allan Barden HERE

 

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