Rail trip to Bristol, part four

Loo trip again. The Virgin toilets are spacious and purple. As I approach the Star Trek bubble door, I find I’m stepping over teenagers crouching down just outside the toilet. They don’t seem to have noticed that there are lots of seats available in my carriage. Maybe they’re really curious about the waste disposal system, like me. Maybe they like crouching and the associated thrill of hoping that no one stands on their hands as they walk past. Maybe they don’t have tickets and figure that if they don’t have seats then there’s a simple equilibrium being restored.

Maybe they’re stupid.

Either way, I’m left to ponder these questions as I stand inside the toilet vestibule pod. Now, I had to press a button to open the smooth, semi-circular door, and yet as I stand here wondering what the deal is with the crouching dudes, the door is still gaping open and they’re gawping at me, wondering what afro boy will do next.

I’m not stupid.

I press the close button and watch their faces slowly disappear replaced by a shiny red door thing. I’m just unzipping my fly when it occurs to me that there was a third button. Lock. Why, exactly, that button is necessary for an automated toilet is well beyond me. Personally, I don’t like the idea of someone pressing the Open button from the outside and watching, with dropped jaw, as the red curtain slowly slides open to reveal a man entirely clothed except for one quite crucial gap in his shorts, pissing into a chemical toilet.

The whole Miltonic scene would be projected onto the full-length mirror at the back, and to keep the dramatic sentiment alive, no doubt I would receive rapturous applause and woopings from the crouching teenagers.

So, strong in my resolve to avoid flashing a gaggle of minors, I press the lock button and concentrate on pissing.

There are no signs about flushing in stations here. This toilet seems to have a more humane/less humorous waste mechanism. However, there is a lot of braille. If a blind person has successfully manoeuvred himself to the toilet vestipod, he has clearly managed to avoid the penis-hungry teenagers. Though if he were caught out by the lock button, it's probably fair to say that an oblivious blind flasher is more likely to leave psychological damage to an impressionable teenager than a deliberate, pervy twat.