I love handicapped toilets. Oh yes, I am a huge fan. If there is a choice then I will always take the handicapped cubicle without hesitation.
It’s mainly the space. You can do a little ballerina swirl, put your legs out in front like in first class on an aeroplane, and hang your jacket where it will not be squeezed up against your ear. You can do some yoga, pull up your shirt and admire your stomach muscles, or your penis, and all in peace and harmony.
There are no smudgy walls a decimetre to each side, no fat guy farting out his lunch in the next cubicle, no badly drawn sexual graffiti a finger’s length from your nose. Oh yes, all is as calm and peaceful as a Nick Drake song. Fruit tree, or one of those ones.
In a handicapped toilet, quite simply, I feel like the king. This must be what its like for royalty, I imagine, having 8 square metres in which to do your business. I could stay there all day.
And you may ask – where are your morals, Paddy my lad? How dare you take up the handicapped persons’ toilet in this cowardly manner? Well, it is a concern, of course, that they will catch me out. In fact, I live in fear of leaving a handicapped toilet one day and finding myself being stared at by an angry handicapped person, or a whole group of them, like maybe a Special Olympics basketball team.
But strangely it has never happened. And if it does I can pull the Larry Davis trick and claim to have a stutter, as this is also a handicap. Or else I could just make a run for it.
Figure 1: A very very small picture