If you are an observant mate of mine, you should have realised my noticeably frequent use of the washroom. While the reason is purely biological, this inconvenient fact has invited numerous suspicions since I was a kid.
For example, my teachers raised their disapproving brows to my request to be excused every time. They mostly believed that I was rather testing the possibility to sneak out from the classroom, hence the refusal. Completely comprehensible, yet the result was unbearably inhumane. Many a time I suffered through the class trying all my might not to spill and experience a premature social downfall, while the effort was unfortunately frustrated by those dastardly mates who suddenly bursted into a train of best jokes with all keenness, lest you shouldn't erupt.
For example, my teachers raised their disapproving brows to my request to be excused every time. They mostly believed that I was rather testing the possibility to sneak out from the classroom, hence the refusal. Completely comprehensible, yet the result was unbearably inhumane. Many a time I suffered through the class trying all my might not to spill and experience a premature social downfall, while the effort was unfortunately frustrated by those dastardly mates who suddenly bursted into a train of best jokes with all keenness, lest you shouldn't erupt.
Learnt it in the hard way, I have become diligently self-conscious about my own fluid intake, especially when I am uncertain about the W/C availability in the surroundings. Nobody could be more thoroughly clear that even the tiniest form of incautious liquid indulgence could lead to the the worst social and physical nightmare....
Now, with all these background-setting information, let me tell you my experience the other day in London. They story begins in the afternoon of the penultimate day of my trip. I was by then pretty much a relaxed and nonchalant tourist who had been thoroughly desensitised by the holiday ambiance. Having planned nothing for the day, I decided to ramble in Central London, where I would walk from Regent's Park to as far as the Thames.
Even though the sun wasn't as scorching as it was when I first arrived, the walking slowly dehydrated me, and I thought it would be a lovely idea to explore a tiny snack shop. So there I went, expectant and craving, in front of the drinks section, and was delightfully confused by the wide spectrum of choices from the thickest milkshake to the purest mineral water. While I thought plain water would be rather unexciting, I chose the 1.5L (*grim*)Volvo Orange and Peach Flavoured Water, which I had tried and was very content with the refreshingly authentic hint of fruitiness. With all eagerness I went to the cashier, tossed a pound, twisted the cap open, and avidly downed the tasty substance. Content and literally, ful(l)-filled.
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| Traumatising |
Stepping out of the shop in Charing Cross, I resumed my wandering toward the Thames. As I arrived at Westminster, the old familiar feeling kicked in - I wanted to pee!
"Good Lord. How much did I drink?" I finally woke up to the most unwanted nature's call and questioned myself.
Then I checked the bottle in my hand, almost collapsed to see only 1/3 of the amount left. This wasn't any challenging math for even a math-idiot like myself, for I was very positive that 1000ml of water was in my very body, furiously tiding towards the most expected destination. Not Thames, but you know where. The sensation intensified exponentially by seconds, while all I could do on the spot was to weakly utter: "Oh crap."
It was state emergency. My animal instinct was therefore once again all eagle-eyed for any male signs around. As you may know that Westminster is a hardcore tourist spot, meaning it's constantly packed with people way taller than me. Seeking a sign suddenly became a mission impossible...
Though, my frantic search seemed suddenly hopeful with a male sign ahead radiating the holy light of blue. I rushed forward in a gesture seeming somewhat inevitably awkward. 'It wasn't so bad. And I must learn from this and never drink in my life again ever.' Logic obviously failed to apply when the body was in paramount need.
Oh no. It was a PAID loo. Worse, my pockets remained empty despite my hysterically desperate search. No magical moment. World is cruel. Life is a failure. Existence is futile.
In fact I had a £20 pound note with me, which however became altogether irrelevant. What should/could I do in a neighbourhood where there are only posh restaurants and the only loo I found is so mercilessly demanding? Disappointed, I decided to turn around and trace the steps back to Charing Cross, hoping I could possibly use the National Portrait Gallery's W/C. 'Could', I must emphasise, for there was absolutely no guarantee when my might would fail.
Torn between the actual acuity of biological frustration and the feigned, self-fooling determination, I passed by St. James Park, knowing that my saving grace wasn't too far away. 'If there's a park there must be a loo.' My brain feebly struggled to squeeze out the last drop of logic. Not bothered to waste a second, I even audaciously approached a respectable-looking businessman and begged: 'I'm terribly sorry. Do you know where the nearest loo is?' (British apologeticsm in check) 'Oh yes! I think it's over there.' He pointed into a distance, as my eyes obediently followed to an appalling revelation. I apparently forgot about the spatial definition of an English 'park' - The loo was almost a kilometer away. My face contorted into a grimace, and my body was telling me the bomb would go off in 1 minute. If Exodus ever needed a modern adaptation, this would be it.
The very 1 minute felt like forever, in which all kinds of emotions were ground up - anger, helplessness, determination, anticipation, frustration, fear, desperation, etc, etc. I was almost in happy tears when I eventually saw the loo sign, entered, unzipped, and regained myself. My eyes were shut, but I was happily envisaging the Niagara Falls:
As I stepped out of the loo, pretty much a broken man, I suddenly remembered a short video in which my classmate played a character. Poor thing... I have complete em/sympathy for her:Though, my frantic search seemed suddenly hopeful with a male sign ahead radiating the holy light of blue. I rushed forward in a gesture seeming somewhat inevitably awkward. 'It wasn't so bad. And I must learn from this and never drink in my life again ever.' Logic obviously failed to apply when the body was in paramount need.
Oh no. It was a PAID loo. Worse, my pockets remained empty despite my hysterically desperate search. No magical moment. World is cruel. Life is a failure. Existence is futile.
In fact I had a £20 pound note with me, which however became altogether irrelevant. What should/could I do in a neighbourhood where there are only posh restaurants and the only loo I found is so mercilessly demanding? Disappointed, I decided to turn around and trace the steps back to Charing Cross, hoping I could possibly use the National Portrait Gallery's W/C. 'Could', I must emphasise, for there was absolutely no guarantee when my might would fail.
Torn between the actual acuity of biological frustration and the feigned, self-fooling determination, I passed by St. James Park, knowing that my saving grace wasn't too far away. 'If there's a park there must be a loo.' My brain feebly struggled to squeeze out the last drop of logic. Not bothered to waste a second, I even audaciously approached a respectable-looking businessman and begged: 'I'm terribly sorry. Do you know where the nearest loo is?' (British apologeticsm in check) 'Oh yes! I think it's over there.' He pointed into a distance, as my eyes obediently followed to an appalling revelation. I apparently forgot about the spatial definition of an English 'park' - The loo was almost a kilometer away. My face contorted into a grimace, and my body was telling me the bomb would go off in 1 minute. If Exodus ever needed a modern adaptation, this would be it.
The very 1 minute felt like forever, in which all kinds of emotions were ground up - anger, helplessness, determination, anticipation, frustration, fear, desperation, etc, etc. I was almost in happy tears when I eventually saw the loo sign, entered, unzipped, and regained myself. My eyes were shut, but I was happily envisaging the Niagara Falls:
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| Sweet Jesus |
"一個晚上女孩想找廁所，怎麼找都找不到，不是太多人排隊、或者太污穢、就是遇到正在維修，又或者遇到一些深夜出沒在香港的邊緣人群。在荒謬的城市中，她尋索的又僅僅是廁所嗎？
《人有三急》導演朱佳夢，香港浸會大學電影學院畢業。本片為突破框框國際青年錄像節2009拍攝資助計劃入圍作品，榮獲最佳導演、最佳编劇、優秀演員等獎項。"
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