Toilet-i-quette, or Dougal v Maria The Cleaning Lady

The No 3: Hiding.

Many, indeed most, workplaces or public spaces employ maintenance staff. Cleaners, basically. School have cleaners, supermarkets have cleaners, McDonald's has cleaners, many posh, wealthy or very busy people have cleaners. There's no snobbery here: when you're a kid it's your Mum, as you grow older it's you, at University it's nobody... 'cause toilets have flushes... and are as such self cleaning.

But I digress. All of these people - except the scummy students - perform a fine and necessary job, and in this entry I attack neither the profession nor their professionalism. One of their main tasks of a cleaner, naturally, requires the cleaning of bathrooms, a task that I imagine ranks fairly low on the When I'm Older I Wanna Be, and fairly high in the Worst Job I've Ever Had.  

Having spend one shift - a mere 4 hours - as the designated toilet cleaner at the Crisis Homeless Shelter one Christmas in London, I can vouch for the fact that the novelty of the job does not last. The amount of people apparently unfamiliar with what goes where, and what the little lever on the left is for, was staggering. And, to put it bluntly, and use up the most obvious of puns, made a shit job even shittier than was strictly required.

One of the difficulties of the job must be the interaction with one's...er... clients. As a waitsperson, serving people something totally unnecessary such as coffee, there is nothing unspeakable in the interaction, no social taboo that determines that these things are shameful, as much as they are superfluous. Yet a spirit of camaraderie is assumed as the appropriate register. Hell, some establishments even go out of their way to learn your name. Thank God Starbucks don't run public toilets: "Your name, Sir? And will it be an alto, medio or grande today, Eugar?"

Contrast this to the interaction between a cleaner in a bathroom. Their client relationship is one of respectful silence. Indeed, the 'wall of silence' is absolutely sacrosanct in the men's toilets. Woe betide he who shalt start a conversation on any level. I am aware that it's different on the other side of the wall, where urban myths abound concerning unspeakable female practices such as chatting and cubicle sharing. *crossesselfagainstsaidabomination* 

Given both the irregular and unspeakable nature of their clients', er, regularity, it must therefore be difficult to communicate a time when cleaning said facilities allows optimum cleaning conditions (ie an empty space) with minimal disruption to the natural requirement and, er, movements of their clientele.

Both on home soil and when soiling abroad - one observes a number of strategies employed by employers and employees to allow minimal interaction or cohabitation.

1. A Sign. Generally left on or outside the bathroom door saying something like: Cleaning in progress, we apologise for any disruption. Simple, trusted, the German car of systems.
Normal Client Response (NCR): Leave, Come back when the sign has gone.
Northern European Client Response (NECR): Enter bathroom, use toilet anyway. After all, we all do the pooping and the peeing,is it not?

2. A Wheelie Bucket. For some reason, often favored by airports. The wheelie bucket not only usefully contains all that is required for hygiene maintenance, but doubles superbly as a symbolic doorstop, communicating the following: "Assume that cleaning in progress. There is nothing to stop you straddling past this wheelie bucket, but be advised that I may see your winkle whilst you tinkle. Proceed as you wish."
NCR: Awkwardly walk around pretending to browse Duty Free until you see the bucket wheelie away. Then pounce.
NECR: Enter bathroom, use toilet anyway, After all, I took out my winkle when I landed in pragmatic time-efficient preparation.

3. The Withdrawal Method. No sign no wheelie bucket is used, allowing for dreaded ambiguity. The client enters the bathroom, whilst cleaning is in progress. Recognising the mortifying embarrassment, said cleaning person gets the fuck out.
NCR: Gratitude.
NECR: Confusion. Why leave? After all...  

4. The Maria. The Upper Floor Staff Men's Toilet of my school. No sign, no wheelie bucket... no withdrawal. A lawless land. Maria simply continues working as you walk in. She says, Hola. You freeze. This is not how this works.

The first time I encountered the lack of application of the withdrawal, I withdrew, awkwardly saying - No hay problema. Puedo regresar. No problem, I can come back. But I think I got the intonation wrong, and it sounded like a brag. 

I did come back, an uncomfortable lesson later.

And there stood Consuela. Perhaps marveling at my self-control.

So, the last time this happened, I walked in, noted to my relief that the room was empty, and just as I went into the cubicle... out fucking pops Maria from the next door cubicle, whistling and cleaning, and I swear to got with a glint of chuckling glee in her eye.

I am past the point of no return. No longer can I pretend that I was just passing through - I am committed now - she and I both know I was going for the cubicle. So I continue, assuming she'll leave.

But she doesn't leave.

So I stand, waiting for the sound of the door, or her leaving. Then I realise that she might be watching, or noticing, me. What if she notices that I am still standing? What the frick is she going to think about me now? WHY IS SHE THINKING ABOUT ME AT ALL! THERE SHOULD BE A FUCKING SIGN OR A WHEELIE BIN OR SHE SHOULD FREAKING WELL LEAVE.

So I sit down, incase she can see the angle of something. So I'm sitting there pretending to go to the bathroom, while Maria whistles some evil Mexican village melody.

(Oh, this is when I updated Facebook thus: Why the frick doesn't our cleaning lady leave when someone enters the bathroom!? Trapped. And was accused by one and all of having First World Problems. Bah!)