Since last I wrote, I have been sailing the high seas in the quest of adventure and tales of derring-do. I enjoyed a lovely cruise with my family, but the only plunder with which I returned was a horrible cold which laid me up for a week. Inevitably, I was accused of having ‘man ‘flu’, but I still maintain it was a very debilitating cold.
Advancing age and being male (Don’t start me on gender issues!) between them mean that I cannot be too far away from a loo for too long. In Santander (the Spanish port, not the bank), having split from my family to do my own thing, I started to feel the call. Foolishly, I decided to use the Maps App on my phone to find the nearest facilities. Wrong move! I was assured there were loos within a five-minute walk, and so I set off.
Santander is built on a steep slope, a slope so steep that they are installing moving walkways to help pedestrians reach the top of the town more easily. Long story short: after half an hour of walking, I found myself at the top of the town standing outside a set of public loos which had clearly been out of action for the past twenty years.
By this stage I was Mark Knopfler (in Dire Straits – geddit?) bladder-wise, so I did what I should have done in the first place, and I dashed into a local coffee shop. I said ‘Hombres?’ pleadingly to the amused proprietor who pointed to the necessary little room. Was I relieved! I stayed then for a coffee. I’d strayed far from the touristy area, and I think the locals were much entertained by this mad Englishman who’d dashed in shouting ‘Men!’ (I did French and Latin… no way did I know the Spanish word for loos!)
I then had a half hour walk back to the ship (‘Ship’, note, not ‘boat’… I keeping hoping to meet the captain to say, ‘Nice little boat you have here’, and see him explode.)
Which brings me in a tortuous fashion to the subject of loos, specifically Ringwood’s. I remember the block being built with whatever the number is (I’m not going into town to count them for you) of individual unisex cubicles, all well-ventilated with all necessary facilities. Then, I’m told, some lady councillor intervened and said they must be designated male/female, so now you must wander past empty cubicles to reach the ones designated for your ‘type’. (I’m still resisting getting into gender issues, note.) I have in extremis had to pop into a female-designated cubicle, and I can assure you that they are no cleaner or more fragrant than the male-designated ones.
Ringwood should now be ashamed of the degradation the loos have experienced since they were built. They are shamefully smelly, badly maintained and, sadly, the targets for vandalism.
I’m not attributing blame here, though it seems clear to me that someone somewhere must bear responsibility for keeping our loos acceptable. What must the visitors to the town think of us? Whatever happened to Civic Pride? (Not the bread… you’re thinking of Mother’s Pride.)
From sailing the high seas to local ‘conveniences’… think that’s been a successful ramble.
Tony