Mentioning the unmentionable
The time has come to talk about something unpleasant. Readers of a more delicate disposition may wish to leave now – before the going, as it were, gets really rough.
We were in Mr Donut on Huaihai Lu the other day, enjoying free American Drip Coffee refills, and fluorescent pink donuts, when J returned from a visit to the toilet. She fairly ran to our table in her excitement, hair flying and eyes sparkling. “The toilets in here are really NICE!!!” she exclaimed. I looked at her sadly, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
A friend of mine once told me the sad story of how the weak bladders of his wife and three daughters had ultimately resulted in him having to sell his caravan. Their home was near Blackpool, and on any journey South, their first toilet stop was Knutsford Services, a mere 45 minutes down the M6. With comfort breaks of these frequencies, a trip to Cornwall could take the best part of 3 days. Holidays became journey-planning exercises dominated by finding suitable toilets at intervals of no more than 20 miles. In the end, the poor man gave up and took himself and his Swift Challenger to his local We Buy Caravans for Cash dealer. I nodded sympathetically during the telling of this tale, while secretly congratulating myself on the robust waterworks of my own children. We could travel from Middlewich to Scotland towing two jet-skis without the thought of a toilet even crossing anyone’s mind. I firmly believe there was no element of luck in this, no fortuitous bladder gene involved, it was entirely down to my own exacting toilet-training methods, 15 years, 10 years and 6 years ago respectively – namely – Pampers firmly in place until the age of 2¾, then no messing about with potties – it was straight onto the toilet, where they would sink slowly into the bowl, hanging grimly onto the sides to prevent themselves from falling in completely. Thus, in this position, with their little knees wedged firmly under their chin, they learnt to survive, they learnt to take responsibility for their own toilet fate, and both they and I avoided the dreaded toilet interrogation that seemed to dominate my own childhood.
Mother: (immediately before the start of any journey expected to take longer than 10 minutes) Have you been to the toilet?
Me/brother: Yes I have.
Mother: When?
Me/brother: When I got up.
Mother: Well, you should go again.
Me/brother: But I don’t need to go again.
Mother: Well, you should still go again, it’s a long journey.
Me/brother: But I don’t need to go again.
Mother: Well, you should still go again.
Repeat ad infinitum, until brother/I gave in and went again.
However, all my determination not to let toilets become this sort of life obsession now seems to have gone to waste, no pun intended, due to the appalling state of Chinese toilets and the strange toilet habits of Chinese people.
Even though toilets have been around in China since 24AD (a toilet with running water, stone seat and comfy armrests was apparently discovered in the tomb of a Chinese king of the Western Han Dynasty), toilets as we know them were not widely available until very recently. In fact, they still aren’t that widely available now. The vast majority of toilets in public places (shopping malls, trains, cafes, and incredibly, even our local KFC) are simply toilet bowls in the floor – squat toilets. Even the toilet (a squat toilet again) at our swimming pool is in the changing room – quite literally in the changing room – not even a door on it. And again, although I have never personally witnessed it, assuming the public toilet even has a door, many people don’t even bother to shut it. This is what comes of generations of living 8 families to a room.
And so now, breaking the habits of our lifetimes, both J and I obsessively make sure we are never caught out, never desperately needing a public toilet. This is done by making sure we always go before we go anywhere, and when we do go anywhere, J now checks the toilets out as a matter of course - so we are compiling a mental list of Suitable Public Toilets.
And for a final example of the very different attitude to the toilet here in China (I have found as well that my nerve has sadly failed – conditions are far, far worse than I have been able to bring myself to describe) last weekend we had a barbecue. Two Chinese girls, friends of a friend, came along. Just before they left, they went to the toilet. Together. They went into the downstairs toilet, together. It’s because they live together, explained our friend, they live together in the same room. They’re used to it.
We were in Mr Donut on Huaihai Lu the other day, enjoying free American Drip Coffee refills, and fluorescent pink donuts, when J returned from a visit to the toilet. She fairly ran to our table in her excitement, hair flying and eyes sparkling. “The toilets in here are really NICE!!!” she exclaimed. I looked at her sadly, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
A friend of mine once told me the sad story of how the weak bladders of his wife and three daughters had ultimately resulted in him having to sell his caravan. Their home was near Blackpool, and on any journey South, their first toilet stop was Knutsford Services, a mere 45 minutes down the M6. With comfort breaks of these frequencies, a trip to Cornwall could take the best part of 3 days. Holidays became journey-planning exercises dominated by finding suitable toilets at intervals of no more than 20 miles. In the end, the poor man gave up and took himself and his Swift Challenger to his local We Buy Caravans for Cash dealer. I nodded sympathetically during the telling of this tale, while secretly congratulating myself on the robust waterworks of my own children. We could travel from Middlewich to Scotland towing two jet-skis without the thought of a toilet even crossing anyone’s mind. I firmly believe there was no element of luck in this, no fortuitous bladder gene involved, it was entirely down to my own exacting toilet-training methods, 15 years, 10 years and 6 years ago respectively – namely – Pampers firmly in place until the age of 2¾, then no messing about with potties – it was straight onto the toilet, where they would sink slowly into the bowl, hanging grimly onto the sides to prevent themselves from falling in completely. Thus, in this position, with their little knees wedged firmly under their chin, they learnt to survive, they learnt to take responsibility for their own toilet fate, and both they and I avoided the dreaded toilet interrogation that seemed to dominate my own childhood.
Mother: (immediately before the start of any journey expected to take longer than 10 minutes) Have you been to the toilet?
Me/brother: Yes I have.
Mother: When?
Me/brother: When I got up.
Mother: Well, you should go again.
Me/brother: But I don’t need to go again.
Mother: Well, you should still go again, it’s a long journey.
Me/brother: But I don’t need to go again.
Mother: Well, you should still go again.
Repeat ad infinitum, until brother/I gave in and went again.
However, all my determination not to let toilets become this sort of life obsession now seems to have gone to waste, no pun intended, due to the appalling state of Chinese toilets and the strange toilet habits of Chinese people.
Even though toilets have been around in China since 24AD (a toilet with running water, stone seat and comfy armrests was apparently discovered in the tomb of a Chinese king of the Western Han Dynasty), toilets as we know them were not widely available until very recently. In fact, they still aren’t that widely available now. The vast majority of toilets in public places (shopping malls, trains, cafes, and incredibly, even our local KFC) are simply toilet bowls in the floor – squat toilets. Even the toilet (a squat toilet again) at our swimming pool is in the changing room – quite literally in the changing room – not even a door on it. And again, although I have never personally witnessed it, assuming the public toilet even has a door, many people don’t even bother to shut it. This is what comes of generations of living 8 families to a room.
And so now, breaking the habits of our lifetimes, both J and I obsessively make sure we are never caught out, never desperately needing a public toilet. This is done by making sure we always go before we go anywhere, and when we do go anywhere, J now checks the toilets out as a matter of course - so we are compiling a mental list of Suitable Public Toilets.
And for a final example of the very different attitude to the toilet here in China (I have found as well that my nerve has sadly failed – conditions are far, far worse than I have been able to bring myself to describe) last weekend we had a barbecue. Two Chinese girls, friends of a friend, came along. Just before they left, they went to the toilet. Together. They went into the downstairs toilet, together. It’s because they live together, explained our friend, they live together in the same room. They’re used to it.
posted by Linda at 11:05 AM
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