You can tell whether society is civilized by a great many things – its music, art and whether it can sustain a viable roller-derby competition. You can also glean much from the things a community builds – its temples, halls and so on. But the true character of a city is revealed not in its grand designs, its monuments or skyscrapers. You need to look closer to ground level. If you really want to understand a society, look at its toilets.
You can tell whether society is civilized by a great many things – its music, art and whether it can sustain a viable roller-derby competition. You can also glean much from the things a community builds – its temples, halls and so on. But the true character of a city is revealed not in its grand designs, its monuments or skyscrapers. You need to look closer to ground level. If you really want to understand a society, look at its toilets.
It’s true that such things should never be raised in polite discussion. Indeed, it’s no accident that we have developed all manner of euphemisms for describing this most basic of human functions. From ‘powdering your nose’ through to the ever-cryptic ‘seeing a man about a horse’, we are programmed from childhood to avoid declaring that we have heard nature call and intend to answer it.
I, for one, am not afraid to say that I’m a firm believer in high quality public facilities. Truth be told, it was upon being handed a shovel and the instruction to ‘find somewhere quiet’ when camping as a child that permanently put me off the outdoors. To its eternal credit, Frankston not only has a high quality public convenience, they have called it a ‘comfort station’. Now that’s civilized.
But a dark cloud has descended across our suburbs and towns, casting its ominous shadow over our communal outhouses and threatening the universal right to take a tinkle at short notice. These monuments to civility have become a target of anti-social behaviour far beyond bad graffiti that makes the bold but unlikely promise of ‘for a good time call….’. Vandalism and worse has resulted in the closure of many of these national treasures. Before long, we’ll be lucky if there are any left at all.
It was Saturday morning and we were heading from one ‘open for inspection’ to the next. I’d been for a run and had drunk plenty of water to avoid dehydration. There are many rules when looking at other people’s homes; chief amongst them being that you must never utilize the facilities during an open for inspection. Trust me – it’s something I learned the hard way.
When the sweet siren call of nature began to whisper in my ear, my mind immediately sprang into action, before swiftly pulling a hamstring and retiring ‘hurt’. I considered stopping at a well-known chain of fast food-restaurants for what is known throughout the civilized world as a ‘McSlash’ but decided to take the high moral ground. Besides, I’ve grown tired of purchasing a small order of French Fries when all I really want to do is visit Fonzie’s office.
As we drove on, I saw it. An expanse of green appeared over the horizon as we came upon a park. But as I gazed out upon the rolling hills and trees, my heart sank. For this park did not have a discrete brick structure tucked away in some quiet corner. Instead, the locals had installed space toilets from the future.
It was a gleaming, metal box; like something you’d expect if Dr Who decided to ‘pimp his ride’. For years, I have avoided these contraptions for fear that they might malfunction. I approached it slowly and with caution. As I got closer, a flashing green light suggested it was ready for its next victim. On the outside was a long list of instructions and, suddenly, not quite my greatest fear was realized. What if I couldn’t figure out how to get in?
Without my reading glasses, the instructions may as well have been in Esperanto. Starting to panic, I was reduced to pushing various buttons and whole panels at random before curling my fists and banging on the outside. Miraculously, the door slid open. But getting inside was one thing. Getting the door to close was another entirely. After a few panicked minutes, I found another button and was entombed. Without warning, the same voice that tells me that the 7.36 express to the city is now departing platform 2 told me that I had ten minutes to do what I came for before unspecified consequences would be visited upon me. I assumed the worst – the door would spring open and a tactical response team, weapons drawn, would be waiting for me. Then, as though sensing my extraordinary level of anxiety, the soothing sounds of Burt Bacharach were piped into the room. As sentiments go, I wholly agree with Burt that what the world needs now is love, sweet love, but I’m not sure that I need to hear about it when using a public lavatory.
Lucky for me, I was done before my ten minutes was up. As I exited the metal box and returned to the sunlight, I wondered how things have reached a point where something as simple as a public convenience needs a level of security to rival your local bank. If you can, indeed, judge a town by its facilities, I don’t know what a ‘Discomfort Station’ says about us. On the one hand, it’s cold and impersonal. On the other, it looks like it could withstand a nuclear bomb blast. Perhaps I’m being too nostalgic. I should move on. From this day forth, I will embrace technology. For when it comes to spending a penny, I have seen the future and it’s shiny, sleek and comes with a soundtrack by Burt Bacharach.