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!)

A Step by Step Guide to Cool London: Fitting In and Leaving Rich

Land in Heathrow.
Travel to Zone 1 or 2.
Avoid at all costs Zone 3, 'The Countryside'
Or Zone 4, 'Middle Earth'.
Deny any attempt that you are aware of the existence of Zones 5 and 6.    

Connectivity and Cash
Attach headphones. (Note: acceptable headphones are wannabe-DJ-monster-style-Beats, retro-80s-walkman-foams, or something with a 2-meter-lead that might get you shot by MI5 as you board the tube. Anything but iPhone whites you mainstream mother.)
Insert headphones into smashed iPhone. (Note: smashed is important because anti-capitalist message.)  
Connect to free WiFi and start your own micro-business aiming at a niche market that can both leverage and monetize the implicit assetization of the often overlooked stealth classes.
Ka-ching.
Borrow money against said micro-business from someone and buy a house.
Doesn't matter what or where, just something over 15 square metres.

Style and Grooming
Trade your razor, shaving gel and aftershave for a comb.
Begin beard growth.
Comb your hair to the side.
Button all buttons.
Remove your shoes and socks.
Throw away your socks.
Put shoes back on.
Roll up your trouser legs one fold.
If wearing shorts, roll up your shorts one half fold.
No, I'm not joking. This is a thing.
Finishing touches would be old-skool glasses and some tattoos, but basically you're good.

Transport
Ideally, a purchase a ridiculous bicycle.
Failing this, take public transport everywhere.
Don't look where you are going. If you are lost, simply walk without breaking stride onto the nearest moving transport unit.
If necessary, travel endless until, by law of averages, you arrive at your intended destination.  
Do not look at a map, stop, slow nor hesitate.
Your average Londoner is both too busy and too important to allow for your fumbling, and will, quite rightly, push you under the nearest moving transport unit.
The London code for this is "Leaves on the line", and will be met with groans of contempt from people who have worked a 17 hour day and regret the lost 17 seconds of free time.

Food and Dining
Eat at... something Pop Up, or expensively anti-capitalist.
Chalk board with amusing pun plus highly descriptive menu should do the job.
The this chicken you're eating was called Billy and was raised in the wilds as part of the volunteer feeding program and chose to be on your plate type of thing.
With couscous or chia seeds or a side of irony.
If you're going to be serious about making money and fitting in, it's crucial to maximize your anti-capitalist statements in small transactions.
Avoid any franchise like EAT, Pret or Starbucks - the same food is available at street stalls for less than double the price.
Drink out of jam jars, that sort of thing.
Drink coffee ordered with New Yorker precision, with tap water (out of a mason jar, or, if in Dalston, a well-rinsed heroin syringe).

Time
Wander about for until beard becomes bushy.
Or about 10 days, whichever comes first.

Monetize
Monetize micro-niche business.
Monetize 15 square metres.
Repay loans.
You are now around half-a-million richer.

Leaving
Go to Heathrow.
Remove headphones.
Switch off smashed smartphone.
That's it.

You're welcome, and you're done.

Competitive Parents

What is it, asked the parent at the school gate. Is this for the animal project or the transport project?

Cow Car - top drawer

Ah, I thought, as it clicks, that makes way more sense. Amidst the busiest weeks of the teaching year, it seems that I had combined a excited child's description of one homework with a parent's description of another, and killed two birds with one clusterbomb. And we'd made a Cow Car. 

In my opinion - and, importantly, in Maia's - we had made a freakin' outstanding Cow Car. Take a look. It was only after the above conversation that I realised we had to knock together another project, a form of transport. 

Oh, the parent continues, when I explained, Pablo and I get really into these things. We started ages ago. 

I hate parents like you, I joked, which said Mum took badly, as she snapped defensively. 

Not as much as some. Do you know how many of Clarita's class had their professionally made? 

I didn't know. She proceeded to tell me, and I didn't listen. There has to be a moment when you realise your audience is not entirely engaged with the gossip.

Then again, as Maia dragged her car that looked like Vanelope's monstrosity kart from Wreck It Ralph after it runs over and bloodied that genetically mutated dog from the end of The Fly 2 (images too disgusting to embed), you could see why professional help might not be the worst idea.

But really - I've seen a lot of this recently. It's all for Peace Week. It's all for Peace Week, this stuff, and as I was leaving the parking lot today a parent climbed out of their SUV carrying a bird cage with two white doves. Seriously. 

Alan Watts

The origin of the Panama, marketing, and Jean Claude van Damme (?)

Maia, looking so cute in a Panama Cuencan hat. 

"Did you know, my friend," said nearly anyone we fell into conversation with, "that it is Cuenca in Ecuador that is the home of the so-called 'Panama' hat?" I shake my head, trying to look impressed by this in no way new information again. "Let me guess," our resident Nostradamus patronises, rolling his eyes, "you thought it was Panama, didn't you?"

Yes I did, I don't tell him. Of course I did. Everyone does. But this mis-information clearly pisses off your average Panamanian Cuencan, who believes that we've been wearing Panamas Cuencans for years. Only the material comes from Panama, or something. My point is, it's a battle that was lost a long, long time ago. No one is going to start calling them Cuencans.

This was something of a theme of our trip. Marketing is clearly still not a strength of Ecuador. Whether it was the inability to match a sign with what was on offer, Ecuador clearly still can't market its way out of a wet paper bag (plastic):

Pacha Cafe: coming soon to street near you

We've loving chalked in today's specials. Man, I could murder an empanada right now.
Looks like I am just minutes away from... 

... from bugger all. That's what. And definitely not empanadas. Not for another year or so... 

When you think of stationary, you think of... 

You run a stationary store. You need an eye catching sign, something that Joe public associated with stationary. I've got it! Let's hand paint an image of long forgotten Belgian born 90s action movie star and fully certifiable nutjob Jean Claude Van Damme. If JCVD doesn't shift staplers, what's going to?

Kickboxer, AWOL, Universal Soldier, Hard Target. Not once do I
recall Jean Claude doing any paperwork in these films.    

Who ate all the pays?

"I'd like some lemon pie (pay de limon!) please, as advertised outside."
*Leave empty-handed, hungry and confused*

El Salto de Fraile

"You should go to El Salto de Fraile," I was told. "It's that restaurant in Chorrillos where the monks jump off the cliffs into the sea..."

Of course they do, I said, unbelieving. Well. They do. And it's every bit as brilliant as you would think. Now, not a day goes by when I don't want to see a monk jumping off a cliff into the sea. And not only that: I want to see monks doing extreme everything. If it sounds like Whoppi Goldberg would have made a film of it in the 80s, I wanna see it: Monks on the Run, Monk Bungee, Monks Fu, Monk Wrestling, Monks Go Surfing...  Anyway. Here's the real thing.   

Oh? Why do they do it. Tradition. Tradition and honour. Tradition, God and honour. And money. Yeah, they mostly do it for money. 

Monk-y business begins with a lot of hamming up. 

More hamming. Mostly in the direction of the main crowd,
dead ahead, parked by the main road. Monk salutes them. 

A final look down to the seas below...
The mantra: Monk-y sea, Monk'y do. 

One final Angels and Demons like sweep of the arm...

Wait for the wave, crouch, spring... 

... and we have a flying Monk. 

Proving he is not a witch, Monky falls... 

Monks on the Run! And Monk-y legs it back to the parking lot before
the tight fisted spectators make their escape with paying. 

Best of Lima - La Picanteria, Surquillo

A couple of blocks behind Surquillo market, in central Lima, you'll find La Picanteria. A magical restaurant that every guest here will be taken to - clearly still something of a well kept secret, that may change after Gaston Acurio (Peru's Jamie Oliver, kind of) gave it his blessing a couple of weeks ago. The bar is a great little Dickensian snug, and next time I go I'm leaving the kids, ignoring the food, and settling in there.

We wandered in unsuspecting, and wandered out an hour or so later stuffed with some of freshest seafood you could imagine. It ain't cheap, but one main course feeds four. The atmosphere is everything you could hope for, a mixture of great service, salsa playing in the background and plastic table top scruffiness. Oh, and no matter how many times your kids fall off the benches, the waiters will help them up again without obviously judging you.

The bar

Fish face. 

Bar

Menu

Browsing the menu

Bar again. I really liked the bar.