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Toilet Training.

I was just rushed out of a train toilet cubicle, because I was apparently taking too long. 

Well, I say I was rushed out; in fact I wasn't. I stood my ground (except for being seated). I'd never realised there was a time limit. I hadn't been in there long before I heard the sound of a drunk impatient passenger waiting outside, with clearly the more important bladder of the two of us. He couldn't believe that someone else might need to use the facilities. After all, they'd been laid on for him. This man was the centre of the universe; when God needs to go, he needs to go. 

Suddenly, the heat was on. This man had the full range of subtle tactics at his disposal. First came the single door-kick. Then the repeated hammering with his fists, closely followed by the shouted "Hurry up". This chap was a credit to society. If I weren't for the wood (or plastic?) between us, I would have kissed him on the lips. 

The only thing he hadn't reckoned on was my personal pent up fury. I'd already had to fight my way through a sea of Saturday night out-on-the-town public, with as much sense of spacial awareness as a toddler mid-sugar-rush. Past Me would have ignored it. Present Me didn't. I made my anger clear on my exit, to an ignorantly toned repeated "Shut up...shut up". At least no-one else witnessed it. 




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