Glory

Betty wrapped her arm around Art, feeling the warmth of his soft baby body against hers. She straightened her back, settled in position, smiled broadly, and awaited the click of the camera shutter.

But the smell had already shot her back in time to a damp men’s room a lifetime ago.

The blended aroma of cigarettes, disinfectant, and whatever cologne the photographer had steeped himself in, transported her across time so clearly she could still taste the blood on her lips and feel the clammy toilet bowl under her palms.

Vance never knew about her first marriage. At 15 she became infatuated with Dr. Bert Castle, her charming Dentist. He hadn’t cared a jot for her until the year she turned 17, the year her hips rounded and became soft but firm, and her breasts finally filled her blouse with ample handfuls of creamy flesh.

They eloped in the Spring. She thought married life would be all tender love making, hot dinners, and fat, smiling babies. But Dr. Castle was not what he had appeared to be.

So many evenings he would leave and not return until morning. No explanation offered. He slid into their bed smelling of liquor, spicy perfume and stale sweat.

Over the months, anger built up in Betty’s heart, gradually overwhelming her once meek soul.

One cool evening, when the leaves were just about to drop, Bert sauntered through the kitchen after dinner. “I’m heading out. Don’t wait up.” It was a statement that required no reply, he had made that much abundantly clear.

From the drawer at her hip she grasped a set of car keys entrusted to them by Mr. Barbar next door for safe keeping. In Old Man Barbar’s Ford, she followed close behind their brand new powder blue Morrie. Moment’s after him, she crept down a grim-looking driveway. In the half light she could just make out a small sign; “The New Brunswick home for Retired Servicemen”. Bert disappeared to the left of a large brick building. With tight chest and shallow breath, Betty followed on tippy toes. Beyond the dim lights of the carpark, a long low building was lit up from within. The lights shone like gaudy baubles; plastic glinting, cheap, and nasty. When she finally built up the courage to enter she was greeted with a wall of hot bodies, flesh, and lascivious movement.

Her fear and inexperience fell away. All that was left was a white hot rage that filled her mouth with bile. The blood viciously pumped around her body from her tingling thighs to her flushed cheeks, filling her with arousal, disgust and fury.

Hoping to take a moment to catch her breath, she made her way through a sea of clammy bodies, towards the toilets. But in her haste she almost walked directly into Bert. He stood, back to her, casually leaning against the wall chatting to a boney, crepe-skinned woman, smoking a long brown cigarillo in a Bakerlite holder. Without thinking she darted through the closest door. She moved so fast she hadn’t noticed it was the men’s bathroom. Inside her shock grew, first at the sight of urinals, then on seeing prolific man-on-man action taking place against the dim recesses of the lavatory walls. She ducked into a stall and slammed the door. Before her tears could roll past her chin she heard the door open again and footsteps move across the linoleum floor in time with the music pumping through the walls. The stall beside her closed with a click. The tips of familiar shoes grazed the divider under her side. The sound of a buckle being unfastened, clink-clink-clink. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled her feet up to her body. Shivered on the toilet, she heard a familiar voice say in a casual cadence “Hey baby, I’m ready”. She opened her eyes and saw a ridged penis protruding from a hole in her stall wall. The smell of Bert’s French cigarettes, his musky cologne and the disinfectant used to wipe down the walls, made her head swim. Her hand shot to her throat is shock, then disgust, then all encompassing rage.

She yanked the scarf from around her neck and wrapped it around the head of his cock, pulling it towards the wall with a thud.

“Oh a kinky one aye?!” These were the last words she heard from Bert’s lips.

With her other hand she pulled a long chrome dental pick from her purse and thrust it through the hole just to the right of his protruding member. She thrust with her whole body until the hilt of the pick hit his fleshy exposed crotch and the pick exited his body at the base of his buttock. A long spurt of hot arterial blood shot through the glory hole and hit her in the face, covering her lips and nose.

His scream was out of this world. Like nothing she had heard before. Like a vixen caught in a trap, crossed with the screams of a person being burned alive, and the scraping of metal against bone.

As he screamed and slumped against the filthy toilet floor she propelled herself onto the toilet cistern and scrambled out the window, dropping roughly on the dirt below. She ran into the velvety night leaving his screams to mingle with the music and laughter from the main room, never to speak of it again.

Pretty Lady

A sweet mist recedes and I see the Pearly Gates glide open before my eyes. The stairway to Heaven smells of warm, freshly ironed shirts and cotton candy vape. Saint Peter stands before me bedecked in flowing robes. His warm, octogenarian smile and flooffy beard put me at ease. The glint in his eye reminds me of a cartoon Pirate.

I begin my tale. It was all for love I tell him. I will him to understand how I came to be judged at the gates of heaven. Or the trapdoor to hell.

Being obsessed with a musician is a cliché, something for dewy-eyed ingénue. But I swear the connection we have is beyond the usual fan/musician relationship. We are destined to be together. If only I could get him to reply to my messages.

Sometime in the Spring I discovered a Canadian Bluegrass band on Reddit. Their banjo player looks like a Viking Prince, the Cellist a baby-faced intern. They have a pretty bushman on Mandolin but the lead singer, Oh but that man could sell me anything with his crackling baritone, full moustache and, I don’t know why but that wide-brimmed black hat. It just does something to me. Something in my pants. Their bouncy banjo lines and twisted tragic song-stories tickle my funny bone. I’m a bit dark, just like him.

It started casually enough. I brought a few albums and shirts. My Instagram filled with links and clips. I sang along with every song without mistake. After a few weeks, I found myself spending each night in the cold light of my computer screen drinking Jameson’s straight, just like Nate does. Double whiskey, no ice. I’m really starting to enjoy the taste. I can’t believe I used to love Smirnoff Ice!

One evening, I comment on his latest post. Oh my God, he liked it. I stare at the heart next to his name on my Insta Activity. His name next to my name, like our bodies lying side by side. I am walking on air. Is he single? He must be single. Just waiting for the right girl. No one else could possibly understand him like I will.

I take thirst-trap selfies to get his attention, dressed in my sexiest outfits, splayed across rumpled sheets. He’d never comment anything dirty, he’s a gentleman after all. But as long as he sees them, I know he’ll appreciate what I’m doing for him.

Oopsie. I posted a lascivious pic and tagged him in it asking him to marry me! I’m so naughty. He’ll love that about me when we are together. We would of course have the most beautiful wedding. He’d wear a crisp white shirt and suspenders, new black boots; Cuban heels. His moustache; waxed down like a glistening beavers pelt, his beard trimmed but still a little messy, just the way I like it. The reception would be on an antebellum plantation deep in the South. At dusk their band would play an intimate show for all our friends under the peach and lavender skies. He would sing directly to me in the friscalating dusk light. I’d weep gleeful tears at his beauty and raw sexual energy. He would hold me close for our first dance, Honey you of course. He’d look deep into my eyes and tell me he loves me with a fierce desire that encompasses his very soul. ‘Til death do us part, Nate.

I finally book tickets to see their show. I spent every waking minute from the moment I click ‘Buy Now!’ planning each detail; my outfit, my plan, my mindset; casual but devastatingly intriguing. The days between drag like a shipwreck survivour’s swim to safety. Far in the distance, I can see my oasis.

Friday night comes and I’m so excited I might shit my pants. I arrived with a group of friends and immediately make my way to the front. My friends come and go during the set but I stay in place all night. I need him to see me there directly in his eye line, supporting him, loving him. Their performance blows my mind. I have never felt this way before. It’s like a two-hour orgasm. I buy one of every piece of merchandise, even the things I already have. I want to show them how much I support them. After the final encore, I’m left stunned. When I arrive home, I sit in my car and cry because it’s over.

By Saturday the high of seeing them crashes into a crevasse of despair. Any moment not filled with their music, their voices, their faces is a waste of my existence. I spend my nights drinking at my computer, finally passing out after rewatching interviews with him over and over. I know each little smile and cute, humble comment. He’s the most modest man I’ve ever known. Just kind and gentle. I know we would be the best of friends if I could just get him to notice me.

Fuck this.

Fuck my job. I call in sick and drive 3 hours to the next show. I pay extra for the VIP meet ‘n’ greet. I would pay anything to stand beside him. To breathe air that has come directly out of his body and into mine.

In the strained light of a dim afternoon, I stand with 9 or 10 others, waiting to watch the boys soundcheck. That is followed by an hour to talk with them one on one, or perhaps 4 on 10. When I see them walk in the door it’s like an apparition. Time slows, the light becomes both misty and crisp. “Drrrrrream Weaver, I believe you can get me through the na-hhight…”.

They are perfect. He looks perfect. His plaid shirt sleeves are rolled up to show his tattoos. I want to touch them so badly that I bite the inside my cheek to stay calm. I’m as cool as I can possibly be. During our 45 minutes with the boys they each sign my album and t-shirt. When it’s finally my turn to speak to him alone my whole body is on fire. He looks in my eyes and smiles that sweet, warm smile. The cutest beaver I’ve ever seen. He lightly touches my arm while we speak and I swear I cum. I feel like I’m in heaven for those 10 minutes. I take selfies with the band and stand alongside while they chat with their admirers. Obviously, he would spend more time with me if he could, but he’s ever the gentleman. He must give his time fairly, not show too much favouritism. This is what it will be like when we are together. I will be at his side while he meets and greets his people. I’ll top up his drink and hold his hat. I’m the most attentive girlfriend. I’ll support him on every tour. Making sure he eats right and gets enough sleep. We’ll sleep snuggled together in a ball, my face pressed into his chest.

At the end of the session, I slip my phone number into his pocket, so he can call me later. I know he will.

After their show, I go back to my blurred-out waking life. But I know it will all be better soon because I have touched him. He smiled at me. I replay each moment in my mind like a broken VHS; his fingers grazing my arm, both soft and firm, just as a man’s should be.
I check my phone constantly.

Why hasn’t he called? Maybe he misplaced my note. With so many costume changes and people demanding his attention. I send him a DM and hope he sees it. “We met the other night. I was wearing the red flower (winky face emoji). Let me know when you’re in town again, I’d love to show you around!”.

Nothing.

But he’s such a busy man. He’s said in interviews that over the last few years he’s been so busy he hasn’t even had time to think. His passion is his music. That’s what I love about him so I could never fault him for his dedication.

Months pass, and my mood slumps. I wait for them to return from their international tour. It feels like an eternity until we are in the same country again, breathing the same air. I dream of particles of his breath filling my body and masturbate until my fingers ache. [Forgive me, Father]

I check his soc. med. constantly to see what he’s doing. Who he’s doing it with.

Their tour manager looks very pretty. I wonder if she feels the same way about him as I do? She must. Why wouldn’t she? He’s perfect. One Tuesday afternoon, I see he is tagged in a fan’s photo with Her. They are standing very close. I feel physically sick. How could he love her instead of me?

I stay up all night going over her accounts, checking every photograph. I can’t bear it anymore. I have to remove her from his life. I spend the week downloading every hacking tool I can find on the dark web. I finally get into her Instagram and start posting. Racist posts, bigoted posts, nip slips. I comment on other people’s accounts calling them vile fucking cunt stains. Then I wait. Within a week the band posts a message saying they support and love her but that she’s “moving on to bigger and better things”. Ha! That cunt thought she could take him away but I showed her. I saved him. I saved him from a terrible relationship with a horrible woman. I’m his saviour. He will be happier in the long run.

I use my new hacking skills to check other soc. med. accounts he follows. I don’t look into Nate’s. I couldn’t look him in the eye again if I had trawled through his emails. But the other women in his life need to be researched thoroughly. I check everything. I keep tabs on anyone who is close to him. These are all things I would have learned about him once we are together, so why not learn them now?

They are due to play in a nearby city again in a month. Until then I exist in my own life as a shadow of the person I am in my life with him. I go on a strict diet and facial regime. I want to look perfect for when we meet again. I order the best outfit I can think of and plan all our conversations. My intro when we meet this time. The little jokes I will drop into conversation. He’ll remember me from last time and our relationship will grow deeper. This is the start of my new life, with him. This time next month, I could be on tour with them! I pack a bag to be ready. Just in case.

The night comes. The show is perfect. Even when they fuck up it’s amazing. His disheveled hair dips over his eyes any time he lifts his hat. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Like staring into the sun without being burned. The after-party is at the same venue so we move through to the front of house to celebrate the show. After an hour or so the band joins us to rapturous applause and “Yeeeehaa’s!”. He’s changed into a simple t-shirt and cap. A little scruffy but comfortable, because he knows we love him no matter what he’s wearing. When it’s my turn to speak to him my heart is in my throat and beating so hard I swear he must be able to hear it. He smiles, it’s recognition. He remembers me. “We met the last time we played here didn’t we?” Of course my love. I know he’s been thinking of me. But he’s keeping his cool. I know I’m special to him, I can see it in his eyes. When I hug him, I feel him squeeze me back. That’s all I need him to say. I’m on the moon. I can’t stop smiling. The rest of the evening he’s busy chatting to his fans. I wait patiently for him to come back to me as I know he will. He’s been talking to one girl for more than 15 minutes. They’re not touching but they are deep in conversation. About what I’m not sure. I’m sure it’s perfectly innocent. She is slight and has long dark hair that curls lightly and bobs when he makes her laugh. What can he possibly see in her? She’s got a good body, sure, but she hasn’t even made an effort. She’s just wearing jeans and some band’s shirt, it’s not even their band. She’s nothing special.

As they are getting ready to leave I watch him say goodnight to her. He takes out his phone and gives it to her. She’s giving him her number. It’s like a knife to my heart. I feel physically sick. My head is spinning but I can’t walk away. I hold every muscle in my body tight so I can watch the end of their conversation. He leaves with a wave and a broad smile to the remaining crowd. As soon as he’s out the door I run to the bathroom and vomit into the sink. What the fuck is he doing? He had my number and didn’t call me but he gave his number to her? Why her? Was it for work? Maybe she’s in the music business. Maybe her Dad owns a record company. It has to be something business-related. He can’t be interested in her. She’s not even his type. I stare long and hard at my face in the mirror as I wipe vomit off my greying lips.

I finally make my way out to the carpark, my head throbbing and my mind spinning. I’m a bit pissed but I can’t wait any longer, I need to get away from here. As I’m pulling out of the car park I see the girl in the jeans walking across the road with her friend. I hate her. She will never be right for him. She’s not good enough for him. My mind clouds with rage.

I follow with my lights out. After a few blocks, her friend walks into an apartment building. The girl in the jeans waves goodbye and heads towards the carpark outback, keys in hand. I watch her from my dashboard, my hands gripping the wheel so tight my nails are close to breaking off in the leather. She opens her car boot to put her coat in and I just slam my foot down on the accelerator. It’s over in seconds. She violently buckles at an unnatural angle across the thighs then crumples to the ground. I don’t hear a thing but the ringing in my ears and the squealing of my tires. I’m sure she’s screaming but I can’t hear her. I ram across her limp body a second time, back up, and drive away at full speed.

I’m shaking, my heart is beating, loud. As loud as when I was holding his hand. My love. I did this for you. She would never have made you happy. Only I can make you happy. You must understand that. You will come to understand that.

When I get home I check my bumper. There are long brown hairs tangled in the broken headlights and thick visceral chunks stuck to my grill. I scrape them out with my bare fingers and use a big sponge from my boot to mop off the blood. I splash a bottle of bleach all over every area that was once covered in her dark clotting blood. I did this for you my love.

I go to sleep thinking of him. Thinking of how sad he will be when she doesn’t call. But I will pick up the pieces my love. I will save you from your grief and then we will build our life together.

I dream deep. I dream of maggots eating her eyes. She won’t be able to take my property ever again. When I wake up I comment on his Insta “Thanks for the amazing show last night. It was great to hang out with you guys again!!!” The following afternoon he likes my post. That’s all the confirmation I need. He knows I’m taking care of him. He wants me to. I will keep him safe.

The following day I take the small bag I packed and head out on the road. I drive 5 hours to the next city on their tour. It’s his hometown. I will see his childhood home, his lake house. Maybe even meet his parents. I will be a part of his life, I will protect him from all these crazed fans. He can’t do it himself. He has to be open and approachable and happy to meet everyone. That’s a Rockstar’s job.

I drive the streets writing stories in my head about where he played on the streets, where he had his first kiss, where he lost his virginity. I stare at people in cafes and wonder when we will meet. He will introduce them to me, an old school friend perhaps, at a dinner in our home. I will be happy living here, when we’re not on tour. I can irons his white shirts every night and polish his guitars.

I dress hurriedly in a petrol station bathroom and do my hair and make-up in the car. The show tonight is in the bar he dreamed of playing as a fledgling musician. I’m walking on hallowed ground. He will see me tonight. He will spend time with me, we will bond over the roads traveled and his grief at hearing one of his young fans died in an unexpected car accident. He knows I’m here. I can feel it.

The show is the best I have ever seen. I sing so loud my throat is horse. I’m sure he will understand. He will see my passion for him, for his music. My passion for his passion. The crowd is amazing. Magic runs through the room, his hometown crowd here to cheer on their golden boy. He looks so beautiful up there, backed by bright bulbs that light him up like an Angel. The whole night I feel as though he is singing just to me.

From my place in front of the stage, I can see people watching from the wings. I will be one of them soon. I’ll be so cool about all of it, it’s just a part of our life together. Gary Numan married a fan so why wouldn’t he? I notice a handful of beautiful women standing side of stage. Some of them must be family, some of them will be there for the other bandmates and maybe a few industry types and hangers-on. Nothing to worry about

When the concert finishes I watch him take his bow, knock back the last of his beer, and walk towards the wings. Time slows as I watch him walk towards one of the beautiful ladies and stop to wrap his arms around her. Over the noise of the bar I can just hear him say “Sorry….so fuckin sweaty!”. She smiles in reply in a way that makes her gorgeous pale eyes sparkle. As he’s speaking to her he lightly clasps her hand. I can’t peel my eyes away. He loves her. He must love her. Why her and not me? What did I do? What is so amazing about her? I feel my legs give way and I sink to the floor. The bouncers are watching me. If I stay here they will throw me out for being drunk, though ironically I have never felt more sober. I make my way to a seat and sit down hard, so hard I feel my coccyx crack on the hard plastic chair. It hurts; the ache radiates down my legs but I welcome the pain. It is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I feel all the blood rushing out of my body as though my jugular had been slashed with a greasy knife. My hands are white and sweaty gripping my knees. I sit for what feels like an eternity, waiting for my body to give in and die beneath me, waiting for my heart to thunder to a colossal stop. But it doesn’t. My heart keeps beating like it has no idea what has happened. I get up and stumble towards the stairs. I crawl slowly to the balcony bar and ask for a glass of water.

That’s when I see her.

Her flowing black dress, cinched at that tiny waist, long dark hair trailing down her back. Her soft laughter is like a tinkling banjo and she is so at ease it’s fucking ridiculous. I feel like the devil himself has brought her here to taunt me. I hear her clear as a bell ordering 2 whiskeys and turning towards her friend with a gay flick of her hair. My eyes are burning like they’ve been struck by lightning. In a single movement, I lunge at her, gripping her around that petit waist. She is propelled backwards with the full weight of my body against hers.

Now, what I thought would look like a dramatic, movie finale-style romantic gesture is far less beautiful in reality. In my mind’s eye, I saw us tumbling together like broken rag dolls caught in a torrential storm. Instead, my hair, wet with spit and snot clings around my face covering my eyes and choking me as we tumbled together over the railing and plummet to the cold stone floor. Her face is pressed against mine so all the way down all I can hear is her screaming in my ear. My final thought, as we plummeted into the abyss, is a huge disappointment. It should have been a single shot of Nate’s beautiful smiling face, but the last thing to pop into my head before it cracks open on the flagstones is the memory of my Math teacher’s coffee breath beside my face as I struggled to do basic statistics. Brains are funny like that I guess.

Epilogue

“I’m Midori Saint-James with KBBL evening news. Tragedy has struck tonight, on an evening that should have been reserved for well wishes and warm hearts.

On the final date of their sold-out tour, local golden boys The Dead South have experienced a night no band would wish for when two young fans plummeted to their deaths over the balcony railing in what can only be described as a tragic accident.

“Nate, can you tell me what happened here tonight?”

“Well, we’d just finished our set and we were out the back getting changed when we heard a huge crash, then people screaming. I had no idea what had happened until I spoke to the police hours later. It’s such a terrible accident. People have just come out to have a great night and enjoy some live music, y’know?”

“But this isn’t the first tragedy to strike near one of your concerts, is it?

“No, it’s been a strange few months for us.”

“Your music harkens back to a time of tragedy and social disfunction. Do you think there is any connection between these harrowing events and your band’s often dark subject matter? Do you feel like you’ve brought this on yourselves in some way?”

“Oh man, well I would hope not! I think it’s just a string of really bad luck. I can’t see how it could relate to us in any way.”

“It’ll all be worth it in the end”

I promised myself that I wouldn’t be one of those women who blogged about this stuff but I guess I’m a God damn liar. So here goes.

For those who weren’t already aware I am not a little bit pregnant, but rather a lot pregnant.

And it’s been a rough few months.

This is where I should be writing cutesie shit about how being pregnant is *magical* and that I am now officially an Earth Mother capable of bending the space-time continuum.

But sadly, nope.

Instead this is a post about how shit it is being pregnant, and how hard it is to vomit in public toilets.

Now, I have vomited many times in my life, I’m a vomiter. I throw up when I’m drunk, when I’m hungover, when I get a headache, when food doesn’t agree with me. It’s just something I am used to. Then I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum and welcomed into a whole new world of hurt.

From 5 1/2 weeks I have been so unwell sometimes I could barely stand. For the first 3 months I was so sick I couldn’t read or watch TV or even get comfortable lying in bed because everything hurt and I felt like I was swimming around in a pool of death and bile.

Imagine the worst handover you’ve ever had. Not just a garden variety hangover but one where you woke up feeling like your whole body was toxic and every movement, every breath felt like your insides were caving in on themselves like a million suns imploding in your abdomen/brain/chest/ribs/everywhere. That’s what HG is like, but with no let up. 3 months, all day, every day. Multiple vomitings in the most inappropriate places. And the vomiting isn’t even the worst bit, the extreme nausea is the worst. Once you vomit, there is no respite. It’s not like having a bug where you throw up a bunch then feel a bit better. It’s constant, then surprise it’s 2am and you’re slumped on the floor or your shower vomiting for the 15th time and the only thing left is bile, which your body seems to make in excessive amounts now. That’s when your very sweet husband wakes up and says “Hmm you look bad” and takes you to A&E because you have nothing left in your body, and you have a migraine the size of Poland because you’re so dehydrated.

Somehow in-spite of all this, people still seem to expect me to be happy and positive and excited about my current situation. They look so crestfallen when they say again and again “Oh it’s such a magical time!” To which I reply “Not for me”. Or “That’s just being pregnant!”. Again nope. If every pregnant lady felt this way the birth rates would be at nil in no time. Because as Amy Schumer said, hyperemisis is the same as morning sickness like a paper cut is the same as an arrow in the head.

Here are some very approximate figures on morning sickness and HG; 70% of women experience some morning sickness, most of which goes away after the first trimester. 10% of women have what they call “severe nausea and vomiting” which is what they class you as when you’re dying but haven’t been hospitalised yet. 5% of women have HG badly enough to need IV’s and hospital stays and lots of strong anti-nausea medication to get through the day (this is me). The worst 2% are those poor miserable creatures who have no let up, little or no help from meds and just have to manage their way through 9 1/2 months of extreme misery.

About now I feel like I should justify a few things for anyone who thinks I’m just a moaning arsehole, or who thinks perhaps I got knocked up by accident and now regret my choice. I am not sad that I am pregnant, it is something we wanted for a while now and had to try for over a year to get here. I’m not sad that I will have a baby soon. Terrified yes, and overwhelmed with the massive responsibility of bringing another human into the flaming shitball that is our current society. But not regretful at all. I am no pussy when it comes to pain. I have three chronic conditions that cause me much pain and misery on a day to day basis, but this is a whole new variety of illness. My final addendum is that, however poorly I feel, I know I have the diet coke of HG. I have been on message boards where women talk of vomiting 50-60 times a day. Of being unable to keep down water or a piece of toast. Women who are pregnant with very much desired and loved babies but consider terminating because the pain and misery of this condition is so great that they literally can’t go on another day feeling this unwell.

Over the last few months I have thrown up in many places, mostly at home but also at work (really weird and inappropriate when you can’t even tell your team mates you’re pregnant yet) in carparks, in a bucket in my car, and in public toilets. Any toilet that isn’t your own is a gross place to vomit. Public toilets are the worst. You can’t kneel like a normal human because the floor is wet and gross and covered with who knows how many people’s piss. You can bend at the middle and try to aim but you’re always a bit too high and fear getting your sick everywhere, and you don’t want your head or face to be too close to any public bowl because the bacteria may jump the intervening 10cm and infect your face with someone else’s arse-germs. If people are in the adjoining stalls it’s really awkward because having people hear you retch is never fun, so you dampen it down so people don’t think you have Ebola and are about to pass out in the toilet stall covered in blood vom. I was vomiting at a motorway services a few weeks ago and heard a child burst in to tears. It may not have been because of me but I felt terrible for freaking strangers out and possibly ruining a child’s holiday pee.

People, on the whole have been very kind. My managers at work have been exemplary, Josh has taken care of me like no husband has taken care of his sick wife before, and my friends have been so fucking patient with all my moaning. But after a few months of sickness my very short naturally pessimistic rope is getting shorter by the minute and I’m coming close to a major emotional breakdown when the next person tries to make light of my situation. So here are a few  well meaning tips for talking to pregnant ladies rather than just gushing about how wonderful it all is and how happy you are for them.

1. Maybe you had a good pregnancy and you felt empowered and brave and amazing throughout, good for you. But don’t assume someone else  is having the same experience (particularly if that person has a noticeable green/grey tinge to their face). Please avoid trying to ‘perk’ them up with trite aphorisms such as “Oh it’ll all be worth it in the end”. This makes me feel worse and makes me want to cry/scream until I vomit.
2. If someone tells you they are struggling try to avoid saying things like “That’s just what pregnancy is like!”. This is similar to people telling me that “everyone has a bit of anxiety” when I told them I had an anxiety disorder. It’s not the same thing. Don’t get mad/sad when I tell you that it’s not the same thing  and you don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.
3. Don’t ask me if I’m excited and when I say “I’m too sick to be excited” Smile knowingly in a patronising fashion.
4. Don’t tell me about the time you had a bad flu, unless you plan to end it with “I don’t know how the fuck you are coping after all these months”. A flu is for a few weeks, this is for nearly a year and I am only just past the half way mark.
5. Don’t tell me that it’ll all go away in the second trimester. Nope. Most of the time HG doesn’t go away and just sticks around like a bad smell until you give birth. Just because someone told you that was a fact that one time doesn’t make you an expert and doesn’t make it the case for every pregnancy ever.
6. Don’t offer advice that even a basic Google search could have provided. Yes I have tried every form of ginger foodstuff there is. I have tried eating dry crackers in bed in the morning. I have tried acupressure and meditating and praying to every deity I don’t believe in. If you think I have been this sick for this long without trying every fucking option then you’re insulting my intelligence and my ability to type “pregnancy nausea” into Google.
7. Try not too be too upset when I answer the question “Are you feeling better today?” with “What part of til the end of my pregnancy do you not understand?” It doesn’t get better, I have good hours and bad hours. The only cure is giving birth. I have lots of anti-nausea meds from my doctors and they manage to keep me functioning on the most basic possible level but nothing more.
8. Try not to get sad when I can’t muster any joy or positivity, or even a smile when you go on about how having kids is the greatest joy in life and how much I will love it. Your attempts to make me feel positive and life affirmed just make me fell worse. Like telling a cancer patient they should just use positive thoughts to get well again. Nope. That’s bullshit.

There are many many more but this rant has gone on long enough.

For all the ladies who have had shit pregnancies and feel constant social pressure to be the embodiment of glowing maternal beauty despite feeling like death, I see you. For anyone who didn’t have HG but just really hated being pregnant for their own totally valid reasons but felt like they couldn’t say anything because of above stated social conventions on motherhood, I see you too.

I’m writing this to get it off my chest, to vent and complain in one place to get it out of my head, but also because I don’t think we talk about how hard this shit is in our society enough. Because women “should just be brave” because pregnancy and child birth are just a part of being a lady, and apparently the belief that original sin is a valid reason for the pain of pregnancy still hasn’t been stoned to death. Just because as women we are tough as fuck, it doesn’t mean that we have to cope in silence.

I’ve been sniffing toilets at Muriwai Heads

It’s not often that you walk into a public toilet and think “Mmm, this smells like home”

But, that’s exactly the thought that popped into my head when I entered the public toilets off the carpark at Muriwai Heads. Mmmm linseed.

Now, I love the west coast of Tamaki Makaurau. I love the dark green of the Waitakere Ranges, the peace of the deep bush, and the scalding volcanic sands of the beaches that run from the Kaipara Harbour down to the Manukau.

But in spite of that love, and even though I have lived in Auckland for what feels like a 17th Century syphilitic paupers lifetime, you will be shocked to learn that until this visit, I had never been to Muriwai. I know right. Yes, you should be aghast. Dr. Josie, please don’t hate me. I love birds, really I do.

Muriwai is known for it’s surf beaches, for that one time a guy got killed by a Great White shark out there, and for it’s Australasian Gannet colony.

It’s a very squawky spot. When you walk towards to lookout, you get a wiff of bird shit mixed with salty sea air and the swelling sound of thousands of gannets happily ganneting.

I like the birds, the birds are nice and their migratory routes are very interesting and cool but this isn’t a bird blog. I’d be terrible at bird blogging so I will stick to what I know, and that is toilets.

This is another classic West coast beach loo. Like Piha and Bethell’s, it has been architecturally designed to be sustainable (or seem that way. I haven’t looked deeply into the council data on the subject) and eco-friendly.

The bathroom units are made of wood and have passive airflow to allow for less smells. The roofs have plants or mosses growing on them which [hopefully] helps them filter rain water for the flushers or maybe it’s just to look pretty, because I’m a cynical old bitch.

The bathrooms are hard up against a rock face, which is lovely. You get to watch the little streams of water cascade down the cliff in happy-looking rivulets. As you walk the gang-plank between the male and female units, the overall smell that hits you is linseed oil on wood. This is one of my top 5 favuorite smells in the entire wide, big-ass world.

My family moved to a large wooden house on the hill in Whakatane when I was 15 or 16. We moved from a pretty nondescript breeze block house to this magical eco dream house because my Dad visited it and fell in love. He was a little impetuous like that. Our gorgeous house on the hill is one of my best memories of my teen years which were plagued by undiagnosed anxiety disorders, self doubt and some mild bullying by morons. I could go on and on about the house that I loved, but to paraphrase; it was a macrocarpa multi-leveled house with huge bright windows, and due to the natural wooden floors being sealed in linseed oil, always smelled like a brand new wood work project. That is the smell I encountered walking into the Muriwai Heads public toilets. That is the smell of happiness and safety.

The bathrooms themselves are nice. They are big enough to feel private, the open slots along the tops and bottom of the walls stop it smelling bad in here and the fixtures and fittings have a classic kiwi industrial charm. Like a Doc hut you’d be so happy to finally arrive at after a long days tramping.

I’m not super jazzed by the gendered units but I guess the council can only move so fast and getting to all unisex bathrooms is a slow process.

 

Rating

Cleanliness :  8/10  It was very clean when we visited. It isn’t brand new or flashy in anyway but the loos had been well maintained and the clever design meant that they would last longer and seem tidier even once they get a little worn.

Interior :  8/10  It’s all quite basic in here; no soap, no hand driers. I don’t even know if these bathrooms have electricity, but still the interior space is nice and comforting. The smell of the wood, the idea that this place goes so well with it’s surroundings and the comfort in that fact that you’re not ruining the planet a million % just by needing a shit. It has all the basics but the only bells and whistles you’re going to get will be the associative memories you bring with you.

Exterior :  8/10  If you are visiting the gannet colony, this bathroom is the most useful thing in the world. It’s not adjacent to anything else though. There are no shops or houses or information centers or anything else up on the hill there. So if all you want it to wander the cliffs and look at the birds, then take a wee before you get back on your tour bus or back into your 1996 Toyota Starlet, then this is the place for you.

Safety :  6/10  There is a high possibility of getting shit on from above and if you have Hitchcock-esk bird phobias then don’t even think of visiting. Stabbing wise, I’m pretty sure you’ll be sweet most of the time. I get the feeling that not many robbers would take the time to drive all the way up there just to try and gut stab you, but then again, they may have already been there, smoking meth in their car. So I guess leaving your house is always a gamble…..

Snugglitude :  50/10  I can’t give this a real mark because the smell and memories that it brought back to me, made me too happy to explain. It’s like your Mum’s perfume or the smell of your babies head, it was an emotional experience, standing there sniffing the public toilet until my husband said “Lucy, ffs hurry up”.

Total :  90/50 (fuck you maths)

RIP The Kings Arms

and

There were a few years there when the Kings Arms played a large part in my social life. I drank there, I perved at hot tattooed boys there, and I’m sure I ended a few evenings throwing up in or around the toilets there.

My memories of the Kings Arms mostly revolve around the handful of years I spent going to see local bands; Hardcore shows, Punk, Indie, Emo, Hipster-Rock, I frequented them all. Now that I’m older, I’m not going to pretend that I really cared about the music, or the artistic intent of any of those bands. I went along for one to three of the following reasons; to support my friends who played in the aforementioned bands, to drinks lots of booze and run around like a spastic, and/or to philander about the place, which was my favourite pass time ages 15-31. The Kings Arms facilitated all three of these goals whilst also offering me a variety of social circles in which to insert myself at a time when I still cared about how cool I was , or how cool other people thought I was. Getting all dressed up in whatever look I was going  for at the time and knocking back a large amount of Dutch courage gave me the opportunity to mask my Titanic insecurities and quiet the booming anxious voice in my head long enough to speak to people I found attractive, those higher on the social hierarchy than I and maybe even feel a tiny grain of power over the swirling vortex than is life in your early 20’s.

Back in my day the toilets didn’t look as cool as they did when it closed. The street-style art works across all the walls and stalls were all new to me when I visited the venue for the last time a couple weeks back.

The week following it’s final night, a work friend and I attended the viewing preceding the auction of every chattel the Kings Arms had to sell. I’m not just talking about the selling off the speakers and the bar stools. They ended up ripping chunks off the toilet walls and selling them to interested punters. At the auction my colleagues managed to snap an awesome mid-90’s cigarette machine, complete with cock-logo sticker and years of built up grim. And a set of exquisite women’s toilet stall doors [3 in total]. The graffiti on these doors tells more about a sub-set of Auckland culture better than any academic prose ever could.

These days, the loss of the Kings Arms will not affect my personal life in any way. I am now old, tired, happily married and unable to drink more than two beers without getting a killer migraine, meaning that every reason I had to visit the Kings Arms is now void. But I’m still sad that it is gone. In part due to my own weighty nostalgia, but also because the removal of this wonderful grubby, sticky little bolthole will stop any other people, young or old, from having the opportunity to attend a gig played by their friend’s band, who are terrible but beloved, downing far more bourbon and cokes than the Health Department deems acceptable, flirting with some guy just to catch that spark of interest in his eye when you say something witty, the acceptance of which will feed your damaged self esteem for  a few days at least, then making out with aforementioned boy after eating too many Golden Cheese Grain Waves purchased from the Shell station on Khyber Pass because you didn’t get around to having dinner.

These are the ridiculous memories that have taught me how to be a person in the world, often due to doing the wrong thing and learning better from it, but also having the opportunity to be a young person without many responsibilities, free to learn about social interaction, relationships, sex and fractured drunk friendship. I feel grateful that I had safe [enough] places like the Kings Arms to test my own bullshit and learn how to, as the toilet door so succinctly states “Stop being cunts, for fucks sake”.

Rating

Cleanliness : 4.5/10  Hahaha nah, that was never important here.

Interior : 5/10  Three toilet stalls for that many women meant you were always waiting for some girl and her friend to finish snorting whatever from the filthy surfaces of the stall interior . The bowls were often broken, as were the paper dispensers. The supply  of loo paper never made it to the end of the night. God forbid that you were straight edge or sober enough to care about drip drying by the time closing came around.

Exterior : 8/10  The position of the Kings Arms was one of it’s best features. Close enough to what used to be cheap flatting areas to stumble home with your gaggle of mates, with a beer garden every other establishment tried for years to emulate. The toilets were near the front door, but also quite near the stage which meant you had to wade through a mass of steaming bodies just to join the toilet queue. In any other situation this would be a huge negative, but when the object of your affection is standing between you and the bathroom, you have the blessed opportunity to appropriately graze your body across his as you squeeze through the throng making a night of yearning seem totally worthwhile.

Safety :  8/10  No bar is ever safe. Alcohol plus humans equals the possibility of violence and stupidity at all times. But when it comes to skanky bars making you feel like you’re in danger at all times, The Kings Arms did a good job of making their toilets as unpredatory as you could rightly hope.

Snugglitude : 10/10  It was a gross old sports bar that morphed into a sticky venue filled with hormones, drink and memories. No life altering events happened to me there but I spent too much money and many happy hours buzzing about with a full head of steam up, enjoying the opportunity to have my anxiety silenced by drinking for a few short hours. And for that I am thankful.

Total : 35.5/50

 

Whakatane Airport; geometric shapes, acid trips, and 80’s sitcoms

Whakatane is not an idyllic place. It is a place, and there are parts of it that are picturesque but on the whole my childhood in Whakatane was more crude and rugged than the quaint views would have you believe.

And yet, along side my vivid memories of my Intermediate school peers claiming they [and I quote] ran out of condoms so just used glad wrap, or visceral stories of who-fingered-who on the stock-bank at the back of the school field, there are reminiscences of the bold primary colours and geometric shapes that distinguished the 1980’s anti-modernist design aesthetic.

Does anyone else remember the TV show Me and my Girl about a widowed father raising his tween aged daughter throughout the madness and massive hair of the 1980’s? For some reason there is an inextricable link between the style of that show and the over all aesthetic of well known New Zealand architect Roger Walker.

For those who don’t know who Roger Walker is (which I’m imagining is everyone who isn’t an architect or an older architecture nerd) he was the dude who populated this kind of building. 

He also designed this wonder of the modern world: I give you Whakatane’s Teeny Tiny Airport.

As a child I remember coming to the airport was a great experience because there was a basket of lollies on the reception desk. They were supposed to be for the people who were flying, to help their ears pop, but I didn’t give a fuck. My brothers and I were all over those bastards like a rash.

And before you say it, yes it does have a little face…

I think it’s a duck wearing a hat.

I’m guessing Mr Walker was quite fond of LSD in his youth. Perhaps even finding himself inextricably imprisoned in a cupboard at a kindy, tripping balls, with nothing to sooth him but a collection of geometric blocks and a paper plate with a face draw on it.

Luckily, very little at the airport has changed. The decor is still firmly situated in the late 70’s early 80’s from which it was birthed. Amber lampshades, white painted breeze-blocks and “quirky” circular windows show their age in the nicest possible way.

The stairwell, which leads up to the viewing platform, has always been a favourite of mine. The terrible but fantastic look of the railings make the little kid in me smile.

I must admit that I don’t remember using the bathrooms as a child, but I know I don’t recall there being two. I’m pretty sure that they added the disability access toilet across the hall more recently to adhere to access and inclusion law.

From the look of it, this was not built to be a toilet, or even a public space. The main bathroom across the hall has retained some lovely features from the circular skylights, to the perhaps still working but a lil’ worse-for-wear radio.

Rating

Cleanliness :  6/10  It wasn’t filthy but I wouldn’t say it was very clean. It could do with a really good going over, like the grout between the terracotta tiles could do with a good water blast. I’m guessing that every year or two they just whack a new coat of budget white acrylic over any dirt in the corners rather than actually clean it. I doubt very much that the passenger turn over will ever be high enough to hire anyone other than preternaturally lazy teenagers who left school at 16 because it was “boring” only to realise they were stuck in Whakatane with no qualifications and were subject to no better job prospects than Pac’n’Save vs Farmers. Which means this little Beauty Queen will always be just a little bit grubby around the edges.

Interior :  7.5/10  Would I feel safe panicking here? Yes. The disability access loo is private enough, encased rather than a stall, and there are other loos available so I wouldn’t feel like I was putting anyone out if I had to stay there for a while. The main bathroom had 2 stalls and 1 sink, but even these were not busy so I would be ok locking the door and trying to regain my composure before attempting to people or travel again.

External :  8/10  The bathrooms are exactly where they should be, right by the entrance. As long as the building is unlocked, you’re all good to use the loo with no questions or stink eye from staff or customers.

Safety :  9/10  Whakatane isn’t free from violence, but I doubt much of the angry drunk, domestic beatery or gang related violence that we know is prevalent in the Bay of Plenty would find it’s way 10 minutes drive out of town, down a long winding road, past the golf course and into the silly world of geometric shapes and honey lacquered 2 by 4.

Snugglitude : 8/10  This place still makes me happy years after I left the Bay behind, only to visit for holidays and funerals. Visiting the airport has given me a desperate need to watch Me and my Girl, Birds of a feather, Brush Strokes or any other program you’d not choose to watch over say Ghostbusters, but you’d enjoy anyway because it’s 4pm on a Saturday afternoon, it’s raining and you want to stay in the TV room by the fire. Your Mum will let you know when your tomato soup and cheese on toast is ready, so settle into that ugly, green sofa your Granddad gave you because he was about the chuck it, and enjoy some lighthearted British merriment.

Total :  38.5/50

 

Roma Termini: toilet of doom

Hollywood’s big-wig movie men, Instagram, and Julia Roberts would have you believe that Rome looks like this :

And it does.

I took this photo on a gorgeous Italian spring day after elbowing my way through some fat American tourists, and idiots with selfie sticks doing the peace sign. I’ve since cropped out most of the hoard of tourists, and voila (it should be ecco coz Italy but that phrase hasn’t been colonised by we English oppressors yet) a decent picture of one of the most over-grammed landmarks in human existence.

But, I’m here to show you that Rome also looks like this:

Travelling isn’t all pretty sunny days and marble fountains. Reality is not about the shots we edit and filter for social media but about the leaky sink in the central city train station.

Why is this photo such an inviting bluey-purple you may ask? Perhaps these were the cheapest fluorescent tubes available, or my camera was stuck on a blue filter which I didn’t know how to turn off? Wrong.

Here’s a bitter lesson young’uns: If the light in a public toilet is purple, it’s been put there to dissuade intravenous drug users from shooting up in the loos. Apparently the blue light makes it harder to find a vein. Cheery right?! And drug use is rife in most major European cities. If you are traveling anywhere densely populated, in a country with relatively open boarders, expect to deal with a few occasions of drug use, drug deals or left over paraphernalia.

A day or two after I took these photos, I was waiting to use the toilet on a cross country train from Rome to La Spezia. The door had remained locked for what seemed an ungodly length of time. I had been watching from my seat, flicking my fingers and twitching uncomfortably, waiting for the loo to be free. I was struggling with my panic a little that day and wanted to quite down my Bruce. Sadly, someone else’s Bruce needed the space more than I did.

I knocked, politely at first, then with more indignation. When the door finally opened, a beautiful young woman walked out with a light wobble. She looked model-esk, in a way only everyday Italian woman can look ; impeccably stylish, jutting collarbones, blunt cut dark bob, and big dark glasses. The look Victoria Beckham has paid a fortune to assume after years of being a ludicrous Chav nightmare. Her gaze remained firmly downcast as she scuttled past me. That very specific scuttle of someone who isn’t moving fast but you can tell the inside of them is racing like a million Doc Marten wearing centipedes. I knew instinctively that she had been in the bathroom shooting up. I’m not completely sure how I knew, gut feeling, but I guess my history plays into it as well. Anyone who knows me well is aware that I lost my lovely, but slightly bonkers brother to a drug overdose nearly 8 years ago. The pain of my grief and the utter shock at his passing has left an indelible mark, like a fissure on my soul. It’s my terrible, unwanted Spidey sense. I’ll write more about him one day but even now it feels weird to spell out the facts in publishable words.

Inside the toilet there was brown residue in the sink, and an empty wrapper for an ultra fine hypodermic needle poking out of the trash. When I got back to my seat, the beautiful woman was sitting across from us with her legs up on the seat, head lolling against the window as the train shuddered and rolled down the track. Her bare ankles betrayed all pretense, displaying the tell tale Amy Winehouse bruises of a habitual drug user. There is no climactic end to this story because again this isn’t Hollywood, it’s real life. I felt sad for her and whatever experience she’d been exposed to that pushed her to rely on drugs as an outlet. I also felt sad for me and missed my brother, who so would have loved to see Italy but never got the chance.

Stazioni termini Roma, two floors of shops and food outlets surrounded by trains, buses and grubby tents.

The blue light oozes out of the bathrooms like the radioactive slime favoured by every Captain Planet villain, seeping into each nook and cranny of the subterranean shopping center in which they are housed.

It costs €1 to use the loos, which is about $1.65NZD. Not the best value, but they have a captive market so what choice do you have if you need to pee?

You don’t get a whole lot for your $1.65; leaky sinks, bucket decoration, and broken locks all come as standard. I’m guessing they want you to pee fast and get the fuck out.

Weirdly, the light isn’t as blue in the stalls, the one place where you should probably have the blue lights, y’know to stop the drug use. But, I recall the last time I was in Rome that the lights were all blue so I’m guessing, they started with good intentions, then gave up and had a nap. It’s the Italian way.

Most of the loos will have no seats and the bins will be over-flowing despite there being an attendant onsite at all times. The floor is almost always dirty, again in spite of there being an attendant and a cleaning trolley in the middle of the room. It never seems to get cleaned.

There is a weird European, low powered hairdryer, just in case you washed your hair in the dirty sinks?

Rating

Cleanliness : 4/10  No shit visible, but the smell of damp, warm hand dryers and sweat is ever present.

Interior : 4/10  The Termini loos have plenty of stalls, so you shouldn’t be kept waiting if you’re freaking out and need to get in there fast, but there are few hand dryers, which is just an odd design choice. There is a slight sense of comfort in the idea that this bathroom is already a public wretch, so no matter what I do, even if I have explosive diarrhea all over the stall dividers, it won’t be the first or last time that had happened. I feel a wave of comfort in knowing that I couldn’t possibly be the least socially conscious or disgusting person who has set foot in this bathroom.

Exterior :  5/10  As with most things in Italy, as long as it looks average on the outside, the real substance doesn’t matter. Case in point, the Termini shopping center. It is quite fancy and has an abundance of high end shops and expensive food outlets, but when it comes to the base level services, it’s fucking disgusting. I have a better example of this phenomenon coming up in a post about a cafe in Florence. The services in Italy couldn’t be further from the services in Dubai where EVERYTHING is pristine in places you are expected to part with your cash. Say what you want about the terrible aspects of Dubai but they know how to create a head to toe experience in their malls, hotels and theme parks. But, though it sounds like I’m bagging out Italy, hard, I love the place. However grimy, stinky and inconsistent, it has heart and the best fucking ricotta pastries in the fucking world.

Safety : 2/10  Trust no one. You will be stabbed and possibly with a dirty needle.

Snugglitude : 5/10  Italy has had a hard time, economically, socially, fiscally etc. But, it’s still an amazing place (other than Naples, which is a shit hole nightmare). It’s a bit like the goofy character in any American family ensemble movie. You know you should like the character who is nice, pretty and good and does the right thing all the time, but really the character who is dodgy, gritty and conflicted is far more fun. Italy is that character, Italy is Bill Murray.

Total :  20/50 This rating is for the toilet, not for Italy it’s self.

 

 

 

Riomaggiore, in the Cinque Terre – “It’s a bit over rated really”

Cinque Terre literally means “five lands”. No flashy bragging names, just five pretty seaside villages perched precariously along the rocky coastline of Northern Italy.  From a distance they look like a handful of partially licked skittles being thrown down a steep hill, just waiting to plummet into the Mediterranean sea. But, many of these buildings have been in situ for more than a hundred years, despite being buffeted by many a storm and earthquake, so who am I to question their sustainability?

I jumped up and down in various places, and nothing fell off, so I think they’re good.

What keeps the villages of the Cinque Terre modest in comparison to other Italian tourist attractions, is the lack of arterial routes for ingress. There are no accessible roads that will take you into the towns, and very little space to drive if you could carkore (like parkour but with a small car. Yes I just made that up) your way in through the grape vines and fat Americans.

To visit the bathroom I am rating in this colourful wee village, you will need to take a train from La Spezia (a gorgeous port town in the Ligurian province which was a highlight of our trip) along the Cinque Terre train route, or walk the hugely popular tracks along the hills, looking out over the Mediterranean Ocean. It really is gorgeous, when you husband stops complaining about the heat, the sun, and the number of people also doing the walk (this is Europe you fool!! Did you think it would be as empty as Piha?).

The public toilets we came across in Riomaggiore were perched about halfway up the main drag, with scattered shops winding up the hill through the pastel coloured apartments.

While similar in material and basic structure to the one I rated in Point Chevalier, this little stucco shed shared no other similarities beyond their basic use as a place for people wandering about the world in a very privileged fashion, to release the much needed dump they have been building up all morning, since that very strong coffee they had with breakfast. Sultana Bran before a big walk? That was a dire mistake my friend.

Most of the time, in Europe but very often in Italy, if you want a toilet you need to look out for this sign. All tourist areas will try to cater for the multitude of languages spoken by their visitors but if you tried to write “toilet” in every language, you’d have a fucking huge sign and many people would piss their pants. If you didn’t know, “W.C” or water closet is an old fashioned term for a loo. Still in use in countries where the signs may have been first erected 150 years ago and very little has changed since (That was a facetious line. Obviously I don’t think this sign is 150 years old, give me a fucking break).

In Italian a toilet is gabinetto, but they frequently use toilette, which is more like a restroom, and quite handy for English speakers.

Almost all bathrooms in heavily used places in European cities will have attendants. These are usually older ladies who don’t always advertise a price but expect you to hand over some cash for access beyond their deck chair barrier. I was lucky on this day as the attendant appeared to have go off for lunch, or a nap, or just didn’t fancy working that day. Her seat was left empty the whole time I was visiting and I got to pee and photograph the place for free.

 

I’m guessing this sign is referring to plastic bags for sanitary products but, there were no bags available or sanitary bins. I’m guessing you’d just have to chuck it in the regular bin, which honestly would be pretty rank during the very hot Italian summer.

After our walk along the hills, followed by a gelato in the sunshine, Josh and I sat on this beach and played cribbage while I got very angry people spotting and watching dickheads drop litter. The beach may appear to be sand but it is in fact small smooth marble pebbles, which kind of glisten in an opaque off-white fashion. It was here, after the dip in the cold, blue, tranquil Mediterranean that Josh said “Well, it’s a bit over rated really isn’t it?”. It may be a UNESCO World Heritage Site, covered in the remnants of one of the most sort after building materials of the last 600+ years (Carrara, where the marble comes from, is just up the line) but to my husband, it’s nothing compared to the deep dark green of the Waitakere Ranges or Bethells Beach on a summers day.  It took me a while to explain how spoilt we are as New Zealanders, and that this may not be his idea of paradise, but compared to a housing estate in Slough surrounded by nothing but grey skies and empty K cider cans, this place appears to be the land of Zeus himself (Yes, I’ve met clever people in England, but I’ve also met many who will never know that Zeus is not the King of Italy from history times. Yes, that was a mean, snarky joke about stupid English white trash people. No, none of them are likely to read this blog).

 

Rating

Cleanliness :  5/10  These bathrooms are never what you’d call properly clean. Someone has gone over the floor with one of those disposable swiper things at the start of the day and maybe had a wipe around the sink,but as you can clearly see the ingrained dirt is never addressed. It didn’t smell bad, which was nice so they still get a few points despite over flowing bins and muddy foot/hand prints every where.

Interior :  5/10  I’m not a fan of pay toilets, but not for the reason you’d first think. I have no issue paying for the loo, especially if that money pays someone to keep the toilet in nice clean working order. I’m not a fan of having to pass a person (who may be judging me) when coming in and out of the loo. I don’t like the idea that my anxiety will latch on to the fact that, if I need to go back into the loo a few times I will either have to pay again (fine with a machine, but scary if it’s a human) explain my issues or lie and say something less complicated and more socially acceptable such as “Oh dear, I have such terrible morning sickness” to which everyone goes “Awwwww, pregnant lady!” and let you do what ever the fuck you want, how ever weird. And though, due to my rotund present condition, or lack of condition, I could totally pass as anything up to about 6 months pregnant if required, I just really hate lying. I’ll do it, but only if I’m really struggling and need to calm the stupid Bruce voice in my head that tells me that I must be honest in all things or feels guilt about adding to the stigma of mental health issues rather than taking the time to explain to the strange man at the desk in front of me, who may or may not be a little drunk, that I have a real condition that makes me panic but also need to shit sometimes. In this situation, the lady wasn’t there and I was feeling fine, if not hot and tired, but two toilets may be problematic if it had been busier.

Exterior :  7/10  The view is stunning and the access to this loo is very easy, not gates or turnstiles. The W.C is a few minutes walk up the hill from the train station and the port so if you were desperate you’d have to hope your ill equipped thigh muscles held out long enough to get you there without assistance.

Safety :  6/10  Italy isn’t the best place to leave your bag unattended. The fear of getting pick-pocketed is ever present, but these little villages felt safer than most (I’m looking accusingly at you Naples, you gross scab hole). If you were to ask a nice looking stranger to watch your luggage while to visited the little girls room, you’d have a pretty good chance of coming back to your luggage, still present and unmolested. This area of Italy is lucky enough to have a more stable economy than some others and less mass homelessness. Poor ol’ Italy has had a hard time. Even though she’s trying her best to maintain an attractive well put together exterior, she may be heading for a Greece style melt down sooner than first expected.

Snugglitude :  7/10  The day we spent training about this region was lovely. I also have great memories of the last time I visited the Cinque Terre with my family in 2003 ish, so just the thought of these sweet, semi-parochial villages makes me smile. We came across this toilet at the end of the day, on our way back to LaSpezia where we had a late afternoon nap. Visiting beautiful things, followed by a shower, snack foods, then a nap, that’s pretty much a perfect day for me. So, even with the above faults, I found this facility unexpected and quaint.

Total : 30/50

 

Matakana public toilets; I didn’t go on a Saturday because I don’t have a death wish.

I’ve been meaning to visit Matakana for a while. Not because I’m intensely cool and need to buy artisanal small goods from the Farmers Market, nor because I have completed my 20th contract killing and can finally afford a home on the extreme Auckland fringe. Other than odd-coloured organic vege and handmade goat cheese infused free range eggs, what is the only other thing people associate with Matakana? Their fancy surrealist toilet.

Like Kawakawa before them, this teensy hamlet decided to let some arty nut jobs grasp the reigns and hoped they would shit out a winner.

But unlike the Hundertwasser loos, the Matakana facilities are actually attractive (sorry, don’t hate me but I just fucking hate abstract surrealism. It makes me feel nauseated).

Because I am a first class researcher, with genuine professional citation standards, I looked on Wikipedia and found out that the Matakana bathrooms took 7 years to complete and were the outcome of a design competition won by a local guy, in his first year at Elam Art School. The body of the toilets represent the bows of local fishing vessels in a nod to their oceanic heritage, but who really knows about the disembodied bisected heads. A nod to downing a couple tabs of acid and a handful of laxatives simultaneously and hoping for the best?  I could make up some art wank, but why bother when there are toilets to review.

I like concrete, and I like shapes sprayed with concrete, so these fulfill my Playschool level need for geometric eccentricities.

They have pride of place at the juncture where the high street leads out of town. They sit like Ned Stark’s head atop it’s spike on the walls of King’s Landing.

The bathrooms back on to a very pretty wee park, with a stream and play areas etc.

There are two stalls, both of which are disabled access and unisex. The gendered signs have been hand crafted by a local artist. I’m not sure who did them but they are very cute and cartoon like. Sadly, other people liked them a little too much. In fact enough to pry them from the toilet door and nick off with them. That is cunty because now the rest of us don’t get to enjoy them. I really fucking hate people like this, with no sense of community. Selfish pricks. I hope they get a really bad sunburn and it hurts to sleep so they get very tired and do badly in an important job meeting.

The exterior doors of the toilet have been heavily graffiti’d by scratching into the Macrocapa.

Now, I’m not a fan of most graffiti as much as I’m not a fan of defacing public structures, but I don’t feel like these scratches take away from the bathroom’s overall charm. In some ways they are quite nice, if only they were less “tag-y” and more social like the scratched glass panes at The Red House built by William Morris.

Inside the floors and one wall are mosaiced in orange stone or rock, maybe it’s pottery left overs, either way I like that it’s different but I stand by my opinion that almost all chunky modern mosaic is fucking ugly. It’s a terrible old lady craft made out of left over trash. I have seen exceptions to this general rule in the National Museum of Naples, but those were fine, detailed pieces of art, not left over scraps glued together like a prisoners art project and mailed to their pen-pal bride.

It was very difficult to get a quick subtle picture of the inside of these toilets as the doors weigh a fucking ton and the second they close it is dark as the arsehole of Satan in there.

While I was inside the first stall, a woman came over to partake of the facilities for their intended use (I’m guessing). She asked if I was actually “using” the toilet, which I wasn’t, I was standing there like a twat with her phone out. So I scurried over to photograph the other stall and get more detailed images. Unfortunately, the lock on the first bathroom was broken so she came over to mine,  leaving me with no time to get better pictures inside the bathroom proper. If I were a normal human I would have just asked her to wait a second but I’m a massive pussy and just scuttled off apologising as I went.

 

Rating

Cleanliness : 7/ 10  The toilets weren’t dirty but they didn’t look great on the inside either. A little worn and less well looked after than I would have thought. No worse than a regular public loo so I guess being an art piece doesn’t make you special in the eyes of the Auckland council cleaning crews.

Interior :  7/10  The inside was just fine. They had sinks and toilet paper, though the paper was not in the paper holders because they were way too far away from the toilet bowl due to the hand rails getting in the way. Not so good in the ol’ design sense when it came to practical application. Honestly, I don’t think that two toilets would be enough for a busy day and I can’t imagine how long the line would get on a Saturday morning. Luckily, we were there on an ordinary week day during the school holidays so I had no issue beyond the lady who needed to pee. From the inside the wooden doors are very pretty, but other than the doors, handles and the stained glass window above, all the hardware is standard public loo grade so nothing special.

Exterior :  7/10  The view is nice behind the bathroom and there is parking down the hill to the left, but again not much parking when it is busy. It isn’t private so if I was panicking it wouldn’t be a great place to go. Every other dickhead in a 100 meters could see me coming out and I’m guessing there would be a lot of angry door knockers, which makes me panic even more.

Safety :  8/10  The exposed nature of the loos means that they have almost no hidden areas. I wouldn’t be worried about using these bathrooms even at night. There is a pub with tables and such outside right across the road so plenty of eyes to avoid a mugging from some curly mustachioed dude whose get away car is a well greased penny farthing.

Snugglitude :  7/10  This is a very close seven, nearly a six if I’m honest. I love art and the idea of making public toilets more creative, but when the Aart comes at the expense of good practical design it raises issues. Having been to art school, I get the need to spray concept wank over all practicality, but because my degree was in design rather than fine arts, I feel like the dude who designed these should have focused more on the practical aspects of a bathroom which would work for more people. All points given for the small touches of craftsmanship, like the toilet signs, wood work and the lovely brass door handles.  Points taken away again for the use of boring standard toilet, sink, paper and soap dispensers. For the massive price these loos cost, I feel like they could have done a bit better with the actual toilet set.

Total :  36/50

Point Chevalier, old lady gash, and swimming in your undies

A few years ago, friends and I decided early one drunken New Years morn, to walk the 1.7 km from their flat to Point Chevalier beach. The route was strewn with broken glass related mishaps, thrusty dancing around traffic lights, and no doubt really badly off key singing. When we arrived, we ran down the sand in only our knickers to swim, or more closely loll in the bath-water-left-in-the-tub temperature sea, floating like booze swollen orcas.

Now, you can say we are idiots for swimming drunk, and you’d be correct. But, in our defense none of us went deeper than our chests, and handily one of our group acted as sober life guard. Better behaviour, I have to admit, than during my formative years growing up going to parties on the beach, or the many many times I’ve thought it was a shit hot idea to have a shower after arriving home pissed.

More importantly, it is a really nice memory, I didn’t die, and no one else did either, so get off my god damn ass.

Strangely, in spite having visited Point Chev many times over the last 18 years, I had never walked further than the weird looking expensive beach-side apartments 2 minutes walk from the stairs. But, a few weeks ago on a gorgeous sparkling blue winters day, I had the time and the inclination to explore the full length of Point Chevalier’s tranquil sandy beach, from concrete pohutukawa outcrop to concrete pohutukawa outcrop.

Having spent the past year in the UK and Europe, enduring sore-foot inducing pebble beaches, freezing icy winds and marble shingle, the softness and brilliant beige of home sand made me as happy as a methed up clam.

It was during my jaunt that I spotted this little stucco cutie, nestled among the pohutukawa branches.

After a year of intensely Anglophiled architecture, and haphazard Italian facilities, my little heart was warmed by the sight of a traditional Kiwi beach toilet.

Dappled light, filtered through massive intertwining pohutukawa trees, minimal rubbish, and the smell of warm sand and fresh air. Mmmm home is good.

Inside the bathroom, there’s a fuck load of space for people to change into their swimsuits. Strangely, these places always include someone’s Nan leaving nothing to the imagination and having no qualms of modesty, getting 100% naked between swimsuit and underwear (not my Nana. She’s proper). Over the years I’ve seen more old bush and sagging tits in beach and pool changing rooms such as this one than I would have ever chosen to see.

It’s a basic set up with cold showers and benches to keep your clothes off the wet floor (Never works. You always end up with a wet patch). The poured concrete floor, breeze block walls, and cattle pen chic makes me feel young, idealistic and warm, right down to my broken belly.

This one even had toilets seats, and loo paper that hadn’t been soaked by some little shit, dried, then gone all yellow and wrinkled in the heat.

 

Rating

Cleanliness :  7/10  It was pretty clean. The floor had sand on it and some leaves but you can’t really avoid that at the beach. It didn’t smell bad and there was little to no rubbish/Woodies cans strewn about.

Interior :  7/10  I was there on a very quiet winters day, so other than a few dog walkers and the unemployed, no one was around. I imagine at the height of summer the bathrooms would be full to the gunnels with screaming kids and frazzled Mums as the beach is very calm with little to no wave action so a grand place for little humans who drown easily. There are 3 stalls, with space open above and below. If I were having a panic attack it wouldn’t be a quiet or private place to be, but I imagine the turnaround would be good so, if I had to lock myself in for 40 minutes, the other patrons would be less likely to break the door down wondering what I was up to inside.

Exterior : 7/10  The setting and the view are something magical. The light, the fresh salty breeze, and the calmness due to Point Chev’s position inside the appendix of a rather deep harbour (if the harbour was your large intestine), away from the mess and drama of the open ocean. It is not, howmever, a toilet at which you’d be able to park up and run inside if diarrhea hit. But, luckily there is a large bathroom up at the car park which services the patrons of the playground, the bit off to the side of the car park where people drink, and the large undulating park.

Safety :  6/10  I think the out of sight nature of this loo would make it safer but also conversely more dangerous than some I’ve rated. Point Chev has been gentrified to the point where anyone who isn’t married to a professional sporting person, or has never managed to rustle up a set of wealthy parents, would have a shit show in hell of buying a property there these days. But, any pretty spot near a main road, with a car park and park benches is likely to possess undesirables at times so, best you don’t hang out there unless you are armed with a group of your most violent-when-drunk friends.

Snugglitude :  7.5/10  After a year in the wilderness of central London, the peace and traditional Kiwi charm of this place made me well up with good feeling, and for once, not vomit.  It’s not a flashy toilet, but the memories associated with good times and the architecture of your childhood always add to the snugglitude of a place. And, there were cute little fungi growing in the leaf litter which made me smile. I like nature and shit.

Total :  34.5/50