Toilet trouble

If you're a regular reader of this blog (thankyou! thankyou!) you'll know only too well I tend to get into scrapes on a regular basis. Whether it's going over the bike handles while trying to video my way home from the allotment, or nearly getting mobbed playing Santa to the playschool kids, fate often has devious plans for me.

This incident happened some years ago, and in my happy go lucky fashion I didn't think much of it afterwards, nor the consequences that could have arisen. With the passage of time I break into a sweat whenever I ponder how I got myself into the fix.

It all started quite innocently. I was working for the RAC and attending a meeting at the iconic RAC Control Centre overlooking the M6 motorway near Birmingham. I think I'd been there once before, so wasn't particularly familiar with the building. We broke for lunch and I popped off to the gents.

This may be too much detail for some readers, so skip this paragraph if you want. Still with me? Well, the big secret (OK, not that earth shattering I admit) is I always go into a cubicle. Find standing against one of the urinals a bit primaeval, lined up with several other blokes, dongles out. Inevitably a mental blockage arises and I'm still straining whilst all around finish and the next shift lines up. They must wonder what I'm at. Real hassle when attending an England match at Wembley, when there's hundreds of men rushing to go at half time, never enough urinals to cope, and I'm blocking one of them.

Anyway (and if you skipped the previous paragraph, Welcome back!), I was the only one in the toilets and stood there in my cubicle all at peace with the world. After a few seconds I heard the access door open and people come in. A bit puzzling because their voices were at quite a high pitch.

In fact they sounded like women.

In fact they were women!

With thoughts flying through my head at a rate of knots it dawned on me I hadn't been paying attention and had accidentally come into the ladies toilets. I was now imprisoned in a cubicle surrounded by unsuspecting women. What if they realised I was there? Quickly I sat down and raised legs so there was no under-door evidence to be spied.

After a few minutes they finished and exited. Or so I thought. Was there still someone there, quietly powdering their nose or whatever ladies do quietly in their toilets? Waited a while, still no sound.

Decided I'd make a break for it. But what if, just as I was about to reach the access door, more women came in? I'd be caught like a rabbit in the glare of a car's oncoming headlights. Equally bad, as I came out of the toilets would anyone be passing in the busy corridor outside?

Of course there was no choice. I had to make a dash for it and hope for the best. And fate, as she thankfully always has done up to now when she's been mischievous, smiled on me and sorted things out. I got out safely and no one knew any the better. At least I think that was the case... I've suddenly realised after all these years maybe the word went around and I was secretly known forever after as the beast of the RAC loos! Certainly might have lost my job if I wasn't heard with a sympathetic HR ear.

Oh well, on to the next mishap! Wonder what it'll be.

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