Lavatorial

You’ll think me very low-brow (if you don’t already) but I have to share with you the details of a couple of unpleasant encounters I had today, both of which involve the toilets at the bus station in the city.
After a delayed journey in on the ramshackle sharabang that passes for public transport in these parts nowadays I was a)- determined to buy a car as soon as possible, and b)- absolutely busting for a pee.
I don’t use urinals, for reasons I may explain at a later date, so I went into the one available cubicle ready to ‘make my toilet.’ Now I don’t know what the person who was in there before me had for lunch, but what he left in the bowl looked like oxtail soup with maltesers floating in it. I had to hold my breath and fight back the urge to vomit while I flushed away his residue.
If that wasn’t bad enough, on the way OUT of the toilets, I bumped into the next person coming in – a man in his 60s who had decided to save time by getting his penis out well before he got to the cubicle.
I feel so dirty I could cry.

RC 22-1-10