We’ve all done it.
In the heat of the moment, you dash through the washroom door, realizing too late that you’re in the wrong department.
Your reaction upon seeing the error of your ways is to either make a hasty retreat or carry on and brave out the consequences.
I’m not referring to the deliberate invasion of the men’s facilities by the likes of my wife, the Pearl of the Orient.
This bold soul’s actions are in direct and deliberate response to the architectural community’s collective inability to apply time and motion studies to the design and capacity requirements of washrooms for the fairer sex.
Stand in line at the women’s washroom and wait? Never.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’ve got to go! Carry on,” states the Pearl as she discreetly raises her hand to shield her vision and boldly bypasses the urinals on her way to the stalls.
The following male experience, however, was a little different.
It is the German Club. Those steins of Oktoberfest suds are demanding release and the only thought on seeing all the stalls and no urinals is, “I guess these Germans do things a little differently.”
Without reflection or a backwards glance, it is a mad dash for the nearest cubicle.
Nature’s pressing demands are answered and the relief is most satisfying. Then the timorous voice from the adjoining stall.
“Elizabeth is that you?” quavers the voice.
“No, I’m down here. Why?” replies Elizabeth from a few feet further on.
“Oh dear! I think there is a man in the stall next to me,” answers the voice with some trepidation.
After a moment’s silence, Elizabeth shoots back, “How do you know it’s a man?”
“Well,” states the timid, but reasoning voice, “the feet are pointing in the wrong direction.”
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