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!)

Classic

Sixth Grader, Levin, a Russian kid who fits that nation's stereotype in that he is barking mad, came up to me at the end of class on Thursday. I thought he might be about to explain away his missing homework.

Previously Levin has revealed to me that he has been to Scotland on a world cruise on his dad's yacht, where his dad bought him a set a bagpipes. And that his dad is in Peru mining for gold, but "that my father is very no talk hush hush about his job so if-anybody-asks you just say businessman - good?"

He is, indeed, like an 11-year-old Bond baddie. To illustrate, he sits at the back of class, his back to me, in a large leather swivel chair, stroking an evil looking cat. Previous excuses for missing homework have included, "It is lost in my father's underground layer", "I could tell you but then I would have to kill you" and, "Odd Job ate it, Sir."

Anyway, I digress. Thursday, end of class:

- Sir... a question. Is there a Best Teacher of the School award?

- Sorry, what's that, Levin?

- I am for asking if there is an Award for The Best Teacher Award... in the Secondary or in the whole school?

- Er, no, not as far as I am aware, Timur.
- We had these Awards in the Primary, Sir. They were very good.
- Yeah?

- Well, there should be an Award Sir. You would definitely win it.

- Well, thanks Levin, you're very kind.
- You would definitely win it, Sir... it would be an easy win. For being the best teacher.   

Pause. Levin goes on. 

- Now, Sir, about my homework... 

And I didn't even see it coming.

"Were there phones in 1988, Sir?"

In class, last lesson of the day.

Writing an assignment, a kid in my Sixth Grade class (I think that makes them about 4) comes to my desk, pointing at the date of publication. 1988.

Kid - Did they have phones then?
Old man - Fuck off What's that? 

She is serious.

Old person - OK, yeah, I think that phones have been in common use since the 40s. 


She is calculating.


Old man - Yeah, the 1940s. 

Yup. That is as cool a phone as you
would find in 1988. FOURTEEN
years before you were born. 

Kid looks at me in distain, and I realise that it is I who is somehow stupid, though I cannot imagine how. She puts her hand to her cheek, and makes the universal SmartPhone mime: palm flat to cheek.

"No, but like... proper phones."

Give me strength.

"Er. No, nothing cool was invented until you were born. In 2002. Now go sit down, and write with a pencil on paper. That's right, paper and pen. Like they did in Biblical times."

Seriously. I teach people who were born in 2002.

Tiger Woods

Opening line of a student's homework. Crucial, comical spelling mistake.

Tiger Woods is known as the biggest player over the hole course.

Fair enough.

Reports

Report writing for a teacher has to one of the most frustrating times of the year. You're tired, irritated, and handcuffed by the educational-if-well-intentioned-double-speak-tautologically-euphemistically-worded-euphemisms that frankly no longer even make sense to me. 

The modern day report is much like writing a personal ad. You simply cannot write what you mean, because it doesn't mean what you write. She writes good sense of humour, you read unattractive; she writes adventurous, you're dating the whore of Babylon. Voluptuous: book the steakhouse.  Men seek people people their mental age and desperately infer they give a monkeys about personality. 

45 but looks eg acts younger good looking male seeks 18 yr old female with no personality for afternoon on couch playing Wii and maybe more?       

But enough personal ads from teachers, back to reports. Write an honest report and believe me, it'll be highlighted and back on your desk/inbox/pigeon hole with your wrist slapped worse than if you said 'brainstorm'.   

 

Read what is not there, that's the trick. So allow me, fellow teachers, browsing students and nervous parents to translate what's going on when you get your termlys reminders of who's who. Here's your glossary:

'chatty' = abusive

'energetic' = violent

'hard working' = I once received a piece of homework

'has potential' = does not have potential, but behaviour is dreadful

'able to improvise and think on his feet' = the school dealer, guaranteed

'unfocused' = multiple personalities, probably due to long term addiction to crack

'very focused' = psychopath

'he has some boundary issues' = physical assualt: matter of time  

'she has some boundary issues' = sexual harassment: matter of time 

And let's put a few together, shall we:

'If he focused his energy in more positive way, he might surprise himself = If he shut up for 10 seconds, we'd all be surprised.  

'He is a polite and likeable member of the tutor group = He does not swear, spit, nor attack me.

'She has worked quietly and conscientiously this term = Hand on heart? No clue who this is. 

'I feel he is working harder than his grades suggest = He is working exactly as hard as his grades suggest. (Note: What I feel is, frankly, tired. The reason I wrote that I feel... is because I am offering you enough hope to dissuade you from thinking anything can really be done about it. Like arranging a meeting, for example. It's nothing concrete, just a feeling, you know?

 

'He must demonstrate to his teachers that his attitude is positive towards the subject' = In terms of contributions to the lesson, you would do well to distinguish between the student and the desk

 

But it hasn't always been like this. The best two reports I've ever heard are as follows. Both from posh schools, and from a time when teacher's were guests in their own lessons. That is to say, better times:

2. Your son reminds me much of one of those new vacumm cleaners. He makes an awful lot of noise but picks up very little.

 

And this gem, from an old Headmaster from those better days when Simkins would receive a good half dozen of the cane for blubbering like a girl after finding out his mother had died. Feeble boy. Apathy drips from the quill. 

 

1. Simkins has been in my class for the entire Michaelmas term, and even now I cannot put a face to that name. This reflects well on neither of us, but the ball is in his court. 

 

Spare the rod...