Piss Stones

I’m on toilet patrol today.

I once had a boss who was an American and wore a yellow-grey wig. He used to unnerve me – not because of his wig (although if you have a choice of hair, why would anyone go for a parchment rug?) – he used to be in the toilet whenever I was in there.

I put this down to one of the following:

1) He was always in there, hiding from the other bosses,

2) Our bladders were coordinated by some amazing synchronisation,

3) He was soliciting me,

It turned out that he had a prostrate problem and left a year later on poor health. Following this experience, I never spent too long in the toilets.

Since I have been hanging around the loos watching out for the phantom flusher, I’ve noticed that the same people come in here for refuge.

One guy was in here for an hour. He went in the trap with a holdall, probably filled with lunch and reading material, and he had a Walkman. A Walkman. I could hear the “ching, ching, ching” of pop interspersed with “plops”.

I hope we catch the bog washer soon. I can’t take much more of this …