by Keith Evans
I feel duty bound to write this blog in the interests of Anglo-American relations and to enable my colleagues to interpret their lingo. I became involved with a group of ancient Americans off a cruise ship recently. One asked "Where's the Bathroom?" He wants a bath, I thought. They must have been at sea a long time. You can have a dip in the pool. But, being quick off the mark, I realised he wanted the toilet.
A few minutes later another, wearing a stetson asked "Hey! Where's the rest room?" He wants a snooze, I thought. I'm sure Jonathan wouldn't mind him having a kip in his office. Ah, I thought, he too wants the toilet.
Later, a third asked "Where's the men's room?" I was ready for him. I pointed him in the right direction. Why don't they speak the same language?
Whilst on matters lavatorial, I remember a large, very large, attendant wielding a smelly lavatory brush in a lavatory in a French village. She demanded a fee and tore off a couple of pieces of flimsy paper from a roll. A thought this was a receipt; in fact it was toilet paper. I didn't argue.
Debs got all excited recently. No, she didn't want the toilet. She came streaking across the Main Hall, I'll re-phrase that, dancing, no, prancing, no, anyway she came across, as only Debs can, all excited. She'd been down to the Tidal Zone. I thought that at least she must have seen a killer whale. It turned out that she'd seen a squid. Really Debs, you know this excitement is not good for me.
