Using my Superman-esk powers of anxiety, agoraphobia and sore guts I endeavor to save the world from poor bathroom selection. I will craft myself a catsuit of pea green satin with occasional orange bead highlights because as we all know when staring bleary eyed down into the bowl/on the ground/across a friends bed at your expulsion of the stomach variety, you always find yourself wondering “when did I eat carrots?”
Grand Central marks
Emotional joy 1/10
Because of its highfalutin position on Ponsonby Road and the length of time it has been open, you might have thought that Grand Central would have the whole bar toilet dealy down pat. Seems you would be wrong. When undertaking a stop at a bar’s most private of facilities, they can usually be pre-judged by; how they appear from the street, what you have heard from friends and cohorts or by the cliental milling near the front door, smoking lounging or fighting. For example if you go to Whammy bar, you expect the toilet to be a mess with holes in the walls, broken locks and the odd bit of discarded patterned woolly jumper climbing silently up the wall, attempting an escape. When you go to a nice restaurant you expect individual hand towels, pristine sweet smelling facilities and a lady offering you a mint as you leave and perhaps a line of coke, Nigella style.
Grand Central found its way on to the worst list based on past experiences (running out of toilet paper, there being only one bathroom in drunken view and there is ALWAYS some girl crying in there while her friends console her about her boyfriend talking to some other girl or leaving to go to a different bar when she really wanted to stay at this bar, even though the other bar is two doors up the road) but one specific night was the clincher and the reason I doubt I would go back there unless held at gun point by a large hairy man in a vest wearing a pink dress who asks me to call him Melanie.
I was meeting friends; therefore I take little responsibility for being there in the first place. I arrived a little flustered from my short journey due to a touch of anxiety and social nerves, ordered an all-important drink and made my way through the bar to the toilet. At the bathroom door I was greeted by a throng of drunk morons, dodge an incoherent question about my lady garden and locked the toilet door behind me. It was here that I was greeted by the biggest floater I have seen, no paper just poo, log-like and imposed forever on my mind’s eye. My lament at their single toilet situation became all too real. After I shut my eyes and flushed I tried to calm myself for the evening. This is not one of those times when the bathroom was a solace and I got out of there as soon as possible. Ohhh to have to sit and try to breath deeply when you feel your pores stewing in the sprinkled micro specs of the last patrons anal offerings. A hot sweaty room with no natural light is the last place to be alone with a huge shit that you can’t claim as your own produce.
Opening the door back into the throng of far-too-early-to-be-that-drunk-people I was greeted by a late teen girl who kindly bent over and retched her dinner all over the floor, 2 meters from my feet.
You could say these circumstances are not the fault of Grand Central and you would be right but it has and will forever put me off going back there. The memories of that poo will never go away. I suffer nightmares where the floater chases me across the street into a couture clothing store where I try to bat it away with over-priced clothing and am subsequently told I would have to pay for the poo covered items and to have the shop fumigated. But it’s NOT my poo I scream!
And then I wake up, clean and fresh smelling in my own bed with only the cats litter tray to contend with.