Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

The eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed I missed out Number Eight. So here it is; (8) … .. Ah balls to it, make up your own, it'll probably be more interesting. Well it's the end of week 7, and I still haven't caved, but the truth is, I'm even starting to bore myself with this now, so followers (hello Tom, wave!) that's the last I have to say on the matter. For now, at least.


Now that's out of the way, I find myself with little constructive to say, so I'll share with you a little conundrum which both puzzles and infuriates me on a daily basis; Why is it that when ever I use a certain toilet (the same toilet I may add, I'm a little stuck in my ways you see) at my place of work, without fail, someone - and I assume this to be the same person - will try the door, realise it is locked, and then defying all logic and common sense, try it again almost immediately afterwards!? I'm not expecting an answer here, to be clear, the question is rhetorical. But if we completely forget that they needn't have tried it in the first place if they'd paid attention to the little coloured tab on the handle that changes from white when vacant, to red when engaged (clever stuff!), why would the door be open when quite literally just beforehand it was locked?

Perhaps they thought they'd "done it wrong" the first time and just to be absolutely sure they figured they try it again, I mean, I myself have on occasion had difficulty in operating a door, but that is usually those fancy arse doors they have on the public toilets on the new trains - on the outside they are quite simple, one brightly illuminated LED button in an assuring shade of green, not too dissimilar to that of a Granny Smith apple, for 'Open', and another almost identical in design with the exception of colour (red this time, obviously) and the fact it is this time labelled 'Close'. Nothing to worry about there, it's all quite simple really. It's when we throw caution to the wind and venture inwards that things get complicated. Inside we are greeted with the same arrangement, one for 'Open', and one for 'Close', except this time we have another button, labelled as 'Lock'. It even has a picture of a key on it to assist in its description. It would be safe to assume that you enter, press Close, then press this new button, 'Lock'. Or so I thought. I did things in the correct order, and was rewarded by the Lock button flashing at me to tell me the door is successfully locked. Fancy. Or does this mean there's a problem indicating I've done something wrong? Panic ensues, and to be sure, I decide to test the doors locked state by pressing open; if the door is indeed successfully locked, it won't open, surely? Oh look, the Star Trek inspired door is opening. Fantastic. "Shit, Close, Close!" Oh I see, the door has to fully open before the action of closing is allowed, just to make sure that the smirking twats stood in the vestibule area can fully compare the shade of my face to that of the 'Close' button which I'm frantically bashing uninterrupted. I may also have pushed a 'Pull' door once, maybe. Mistakes happen. Well, I am human after all, despite my slight and completely unjustified superiority complex.

My point is however, this is not a Star Trek inspired electronically operated sliding door, nor are there an arrangement of brightly lit LED buttons designed specifically to confuse uncomplicated matters. This is a regular door, constructed from some sort of wood chip laminated in authentic looking "wood" veneer, hung on actual hinges, and operated by a regular door handle which I believe is detailed in the tradesman's catalogue as "plastic"; a quite frankly archaic design despite it's modern appearance and a quality of construction that could at best be described as "shit", which has remained pretty much unaltered in function through time. Not a great deal you could get wrong really. Didn't open the first time? It's because it's fucking locked, now jog on.

Or try again, you know, just to make doubly sure. There we go.

Perhaps I'm not giving my infuriator [spell-check reveals this is not a real word. I'll invent it. The instigating party in an act of extreme annoyance. See 'infuriatee'] enough credit, maybe this reoccurring annoyance reveals a more sinister psychological issue within my 'toilet friend'. If we forget for one minute that a simple door handle cannot really be operated improperly (unless you really put your mind to it), we get back to the construction of the door itself. I can hear everything that's going on on the other side of the door (and often the other side of the wall too; the adjacent toilet. The women's toilet. Grim) so we'll assume he - and I assume "he" as it's the men's toilet I occupy, in this scenario at least - can hear everything that's going on on my side of the door, which is quite blatantly and rather crudely someone [me, keep up] in the middle of having a piss. Sorry to be so vulgar, but I had to point that out as I didn't want you picturing me doing the other thing I do there; flexing in front of the mirror. No one wants to picture that. Whilst we're on the subject, I don’t do anything else in there either, ever. Because of the AIDS, obviously.

You're singing it, don't pretend you're not singing it,

I know you're singing it.

To get back on track, again, this leads me to speculate quite heavily as to exactly why this mentalist insists on trying the door a second time when [a] as we've established, it's locked, and [b] I know full well he can hear me conducting my business. Perhaps this [insert preferred derogatory-term-for-person-of poor-psychological-health here] envisages some sort of secret garden on the other side of the door, and the sound of 'running water' is actually a Charley Dimmock-esque water feature, and that entry to this flowery wonderland is dictated not only by the purity of ones soul, but also by trying the door handle twice at very specific intervals. 0.7 seconds not doing the trick today? Try 0.6 seconds tomorrow.

The mind boggles. I am however intrigued as to who the chap is, but am unsure as to how I can trap the culprit without resorting to "cutting off" mid act and flinging the door open, as you could absolutely guarantee it would be some senior manager type person, and the indecent exposing of myself would surely lead to a lengthy period of time off. I'm putting my money on a colleague we'll refer to as Super Gaz. He's retarded enough to push a 'Pull' door twice. He also does an awesome Alan Partridge impression when I'm in the middle of a conversation with someone else and he has something he just needs to get off his chest, because clearly basic manners are too much to expect from a man-child who finds the picking of ones nose in full view of the office perfectly acceptable behaviour.

Partridge; persistent.

I am at this stage left feeling a little guilty for using what started off as a legitimate series of blogs about my progress of keeping fit as a platform to vent spleen, and not for the first time. I'll have to get off my arse and do something about that to make up for it.

I'll change the name of the blog.