Toilet Humour

Shanghai Hotel Warning as drawn by jetlagged Irish Woman

We are sitting in the hotel having dinner for my Aunts birthday last night, and there are 15 conversations going on, ranging from -
 the plumbing in China,
 addiction counselling in Holland,
a hysterical Chihuahua, 
whether the salmon is better on a bagel or brown,
 and in the name of God will someone order chips.
"So..... Sweden" says my cousin (who is an identical twin) between forkfuls of cod in batter.
His twin is eating the same meal, as is his Mother.
They have one each, not off the same plate, Jesus.
The Sister has just flown in from Shanghai and is so wrecked her eyes are blinking separately and she appears pissed.
She has spent so long demonstrating the vagaries of a Chinese bidet,
 using her finger to hammer home the motion of the water that we are hysterical.
"Enough with the Anal Sex, there are children and pensioners present" - I remonstrate during one of her wilder outbursts, while she is stabbing her finger repeatedly  towards the dish of tartare sauce, and I am grateful my Fathers hearing aids are playing up again, and he is blissfully ignorant, stirring tea.
Apparently, there are so many billions of people in China, you can never give it a minute and as soon as one set of bowels close, another opens, and why the smell of rotting cadavers from the public lavatories caused her eyes to bulge and her innards to heave.
"That'll be the toilets" says her tour guide as their eyes water.
She describes the hole in the floor and on arriving back to the hotel, the sign on the back of the toilet door that advises the guests not to stand on the seat while using the facilities.
My chortle is so loud I feel I may be arrested for laughing with intent in a built up area with malice aforethought after 6pm.
The least they can do is ban me from the restaurant where the surprised diners are dropping their cutlery in shock.
Draw me the sign, I say and she obliges.
One twin is still eating his main but his sibling is onto the profiteroles with toffee sauce.
I entreat the harried waitress who is bringing water, wine, coffee , menus and bills to those who are starting to order, half way through and those actually finished, to bring chips as fast as her legs can carry her.
" SO, Sweden ? Dylan Thomas Literary Residency? Kudos.........says the faster  twin wiping his lips.
When were you on a plane last"? is greeted with hooting and applause.
Apparently, I am as much minding as a small child.
The Sister balances her head on her arms, elbows in the salad and proceeds to narrate the episode.
"I TOLD her to get a unique suitcase,
and she went to DUNNES and bought the first one she saw,
THEN she queued at the Aer Aran desk instead of the flight to Alicante,
(with a suitcase full of factor 50, swimwear, sarongs and a GHD)
and then got off the other end and took the WRONG red case 100 miles in a taxi,
where she had a massive asthma attack with the heat and the stress when it wouldn't unlock"
The quiet Leitrim Man rocked back and forth on the bed in the 40 degree heat and made the kind of squealing noises one  makes when you have no breath left to laugh and your ones stomach hurts.
The more I tried putting in the key and cursing, the louder the squealing became.
It is so hot, he has his polo shirt off and the fan is flying around on the second speed -
(one so slow the flies rode around on it for the crack, the second so fast it looked like it might fly off the ceiling and have someones eye out)
My case is on the 14th floor of a Benidorm hotel while the blonde teenagers dance around it drinking Sangria and neat vodka and planning henna tattoos that will give them a rash.
I rendezvoused with them on the steps of an Irish bar a number of days later.
I am wearing a Miu Miu from the market and was wheezing with excitement at getting my own clothing and inhalers back.
Of course the Ventolin was locked in the case as well as my wallet.
The quiet Leitrim Man had the laugh wiped off his jaws when he had to fork out for the cab.
I shared the seat on the plane with a Canadian man who was so fat I didn't have to fight for the elbow rest, but to actually stay alive, him smiling hopefully while half of his damp self draped across my lap and legs.
My Sister left a note under my pillow about how to behave alone when they flew home.
It involved drinking, and strangers, and wandering, and not walking out up to my chin in the sea.
Which explains how I did all of the above before the planes wheels  were in the air.
And how I  was nestled on a pier in Torrvieja at 4 am with a gang of demented Moroccan waiters and some drunken Musicians.
 Or maybe it was the other way round.
And now they are letting me back on a plane, which today alone has changed from Copenhagen to Stockholm, and which means I might actually land in Argentina.
   #stockholmsyndrome #perfectplumbing.




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