West Gate shopping world

It’s been a while since I have blogged but in my sycophantic defence, I have been rather busy of late. I applied and got shot down for a job I wanted which lead to a world of work political hell for my anxiety and I. We finally moved to ‘West is Best’ Ranui (the classiest little borough in the far west) and have since been writing a piece for an American site called Stigma Fighters (internal plug, I have no shame!!! http://stigmafighters.com/stigma-fighters-lucy-g/)

So you can forgive me for spending my spare time, cuddled up on my sofa with my kitten, crying in my bath and trying to colour match my kitchenwares.

I am coming back with a bitchy little piece entitled “Who charges money for a toilet? Bastards, that’s who.” Recently I went to West Gate shopping centre, a sprawling mass of capitalism and sale items to open a flat account (frightened Lucy speak for joint account with my boyfriend) at the ASB bank. It was a swanky new plasticy looking building with all the trimmings; free coffee machine and comfy chairs but did they have a public convenience? Nope.

I hate that banks and other places where you will be made to wait a maddening amount of time to do basic things don’t offer you the basic human necessity of a bathroom. What if a Granny with a dickie bladder were in there? Or a baby had just shat all up it’s back and needed to be changed for EVERYONE’S olfactory and vomitory benefit? For less than the cost of a swanky coffee dispenser I would have thought that opening one of the staff toilets for customer use would be a sensible choice. The use of a bathroom is right there being waved in your face like teasing a crack head with a meth pipe, because you know they have a bathroom, the staff need somewhere for wees and post coffee morning rituals. Why lock it up for paying customers?

After half an hour of uncomfortable twitching and waiting in the nice crisp-shirted bank man’s office, I was building up to a full on panic. Out the window I could see a Burger King and a Cinema within quick dashing distance should I finally reach full panic, smash through the window with my amazing Hulk-like anxiety strength and run screaming and flailing  from the glossy plastic hub of banking businessyness.

Panic attack abated by cinema bathroom hiding and medication I was later amazed to discover on further inspection that there was in fact a public toilet receptacle, but they were charging 50c per use!

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I’m used to charges for public loos in major cities around the world, London and Rome have a wealth of pay bathrooms but not in little old New Zealand and what a price! 20c I could accept but honestly half a dollar just to pee? That is just stupid.

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They weren’t even nice bathrooms, just a shitty stall with graffiti’d walls and creaky doors. I can assure you that in an emergency I would chose the free fast food joint with sticky sauce hand painted walls over the disturbingly rapey looking pay toilet any day.

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