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My favorite place in the world is The Bathroom. It comes second to Zac Efron’s bed. Some of my greatest thinking, ideas and hairstyles eventuate while sitting on the floor of a shower for forty-five minutes.

If I could buy waterproof books and water wasn’t the enemy of Marlboro Lights, I would never leave The Bathroom. When I was nineteen, I discovered the simple pleasure of taking scotch into the shower for my bi-daily cleanse and, evidently, I take full responsibility for subsequent droughts.

 

My most hated place in the world the Public Bathroom. There was a moment, about two years ago, when I thought that they would become my new home. See, a midget was getting changed after a work out and I found myself in the [enviable] position of seeing one naked without being in a compromising position myself. I started spending longer in the change room, chilling outside of the shower rather than in it, but like an Oasis, the Naked Midget never materialized again.

(Aside: No one else has wondered what an adult midget looks like naked? No one? Really? Shit.)

When Public Bathrooms returned to being places of communal poop, I started resenting them all over again. I almost decided to never venture into one, but that involved not eating or seeing a nudey dwarf by chance, so I bit into a wheel of cheese and hoped that maybe, the Public Bathroom would one day improve.

 

I am often asked the philosophical question, “What would you prefer: To be deaf or blind?”

While most people list music, children’s laughter or Zac Efron’s face as reasons why they would choose either or, I jump in and say, “Deaf!’ loud enough for even an audio challenged person to understand.

“Why?” is the common interest.

“Because then,” I take a deep breath. “I would never have to hear other people shit when I go to the bathroom while out and about.”

 

There are two things I keep private in my life: My true celebrity crush and pooping. Beyond not being a Naked Person (Aside: believe it), I fret over the thought of shared turd particles and prefer to keep That part of my life completely separate from social interaction.

Sometimes, I hear girls talking through cubicles.

“And, so, like, you know, I like, really, like, like him, you know?”

“Oh totally!” The girl in stall four will, like, totally get it. “You should, like, ask him out or make a move!”

Then, in true Swan Lake synchronization, they loudly poop, flush, reapply make-up and go about the conversation and their day together.

Meanwhile, I am sitting on the toilet clenching for dear life because I can’t fathom a world where I am comfortable with even my soul mate hearing That sound.

 

When I first moved out of my parents nest and flew into an abode that I could simultaneously afford and smoke in, I lived with three boys. The corner of the hallway had been allocated some pipe, mould and a curtain, and was therefore our only shower. Unless I wanted to be the Naked Housemate, I decided to investigate whether drinking would give me good ideas and even better hairstyles (aside: It does!) and ignored bathing for longer than the average prime-time drama.

The Bathroom being my favorite room – sorry, corner – became more of a distant memory when I realized that all night drinking with said housemates involved a next morning Run To The Toilet Ritual. Being first in, best dressed was great for my sense of smell. But then I realized – someone I knew would be going in There after me. The Public Bathroom had moved into my house and I had no idea how I was ever going to combat the anxiety.

Luckily, stress blocks you up.

I didn’t evolve as a human being while living in communal housing. Instead, I spent a lot of hungover mornings hunched over and clenching, waiting for everyone on the lease to leave and mutilate toilets in far away land. It was move that, like ballet, I have found is hard to orchestrate in public. Hours, ney years, have been dedicated in my life to making the Public Bathroom a less horrifying experience. With no funds to hire a midget on staff, I decided that I needed to find my own version of synchronization so that I could merrily go about my own day while standing up right.

 

When I was in Japan, I was met with an object obviously invented by my soul mate. A toilet with audio options.

“Why would you need to change the volume of the flush?” People have philosophised to me.

I know why.

Like Billy Elliot desperately needing to get in sync, someone realized that doing The Ultimate Business was perfectly disguised when someone in, say, cubical four, was flushing. Loudly. 

“It drowns out all sound!” I boasted, completely content that I could finally relax after eating a whole wheel of cheese in public. If the toilet came with a remote control, I would almost never leave. 

 

After an [unusually] strenuous gym work out, I retreated to my new [kind of] favorite place, accepted that the midget has moved on to bigger and better things, and sat down on The John. Someone els had a similar day plan to I and did the exact same thing beyond the small wall next separating us. 

“PFFT PLOOOOP BLAAAAA SPLAAAAAAAT MAAAAAAA PFFFFT POOOOOOOOP!”

Clenching every muscle in my body like I have never clenched before, I fell into the bowl due to sheer shock. The fully grown adult next to me was not nearly as concerned, if not completely unaffected, by the sound she had just made and so, decided to do it again. 

“PFFT PLOOOOP BLAAAAA SPLAAAAAAAT MAAAAAAA PFFFFT POOOOOOOOP!”

She went off and kept going and I wondered if there was anything left of her or if there was merely a whole in the floor where the toilet had once calmly sat, waiting.

I wanted to cry, frustrated that Japan’s greatest invention since rice had not yet arrived on my shores. Anxiety ran straight through me like the woman next door’s lunch and dinner. Not in a position to leave, I had a great idea.

I put on my iPod.