Going Under : Part 2

Going Under : part 2
I cant actually recall what got me thinking about taking a scuba diving course. Yes, well, of course it had everything to do with turning 40, but diving?
I have never been a strong swimmer, I learned late and did not enjoy my experiences of school swimming lessons. Even now the smell of chlorine sends me straight back to that new town swimming centre, when, at the age of 8, a swimming coach named Mr Salmon ( no kidding) leaned over me at the side of the pool. With Popeye arms the white vested 60 something would crack a weak joke before sending children to their watery doom.

" What did the canary eat for breakfast?  Tweetabix! "  Push....SPLASH!

At that time I couldn't even swim!

I never voluntarily choose to take my kids swimming and the Jaws films traumatised me as a teenager ( except the third one, of course, which was just made for giggles).

Everything points to a man who would never, in a million years, choose to risk his life by offering himself to the cold embrace water.  Yet, here I am. And why?

For the past 5 weeks Tuesday evenings were given over to making the short joinery to a local pool and learning to dive with Scuba Club. At 10 in the evening a small group of us were being put through our paces by our Dive Masters.

"Isn't this bloody amazing! " Stanley, another trainee diver, would say to me.

" Yeah, I guess" " I would reply.

At that time I didn't realise how amazingly bloody it would become...

Going Under: part 1

Going Under: part 1

I stepped off the train at Burnham only because my ticket had told me that if I had wanted to get to Weymouth from Brighton that I should travel ' via Burnham'. I thought this was a change point, where I could pick up a direct train. The platform was deserted and the automated, message, announcer, woman was announcing the departure of a train to Bognor Regis.

"No mate, there's no train to Weymouth from here you should have stayed on that train to Southampton." I had clearly amused the proprietor of a smallest eat-in platform cafe I had ever seen. " You'll have to get the next one at 12:57 now". He smiled, not unkindly, and showed a string of yellow teeth. He was in his late 40's with a sailor style crewcut with a grey T shirt pulled tightly over a portly frame, which made it look as though he was wearing a buoyancy aid underneath. 

 I thanked him for his information and was about to order some food when a tanoy speaker crackled into life over his left shoulder. It was too loud to talk over the monotone announcer so I wait eyed patiently for it to end. 

"The train arriving on platform 2  is the 12:30, Southern service to Bognor Regis. Calling at Bognor Regis. This train is made up of 3 coaches and is calling at Bognor Regis only!"

We maintained eye contact throughout the announcement and now it had finally ended I  ordered a chilli pot noodle, an anaemic sausage and brown sauce sandwich and a cup of dark brown hot liquid, which may, or may not, have been coffee.

With 45 minutes to kill I sat in the small space dedicated to seating and took in the room. As well as the usual confectionary there was a book table displaying train and railway books from bygone eras, some of these looked very old. The walls were adorned with photos and paintings of attractive steam engines. Under foot was a cracked, but beautifully ornate tiled floor, this little cafe had bags of character.

"Is this floor original?" I asked. 

"It's all original," said the man. I wondered if he was including the sausage sandwich when he said that.  "This floor is from 1910, as is the windows, doors, pretty much everything!"  My molars crunched into something hard in my sausage sandwich.

"We don't want to change like all those new stations with all their pumpkins and lemon trees.." The geriatric speaker behind him crackled into life again but the man, seeming unaware of this fact continued to talk, his lips moved, but I could only hear...

"The train arriving on platform 2  is the 12:36 Southern service to Bognor Regis. Calling at Bognor Regis. This train is made up of 3 coaches and is calling at Bognor Regis only."

"....which is why we sell jellied sweets in pots" he finished.

"Doesn't that speaker disturb you?" 

"What speaker?" He asked. I pointed out the obvious black trumpet shape next to him screwed to the wall. "Oh that, no I don't notice that anymore".

"There are a lot of trains going to Bognor Regis from here?" I observed.

"Every 6 minutes on platform 2, regular like." he said proudly.

"Every 6 minutes! Don't you ever get tired of hearing the words Bognor Regis? I have only been here 20 minutes and it's driving me crazy"

His brow furrowed. "I never thought of it like that," he said.

I thanked him for the food and waited for my train outside on the platform. The next time a train was announced to Bognor Regis I peeked through the window of the cafe to see the man staring hard at the speaker on his wall.

Five more times the trains to Bognor Regis were announced and he still had his eyes fixed to that speaker. 

When my train finally pulled away, I could just make out the poor cafe owner desperately stuffing serviettes into the bell of the speaker.

Inner Journeys

Turning 40 has turned out to be a positive experience for me, so far. I made a conscious effort, fed by an unconscious yearning, to do more for myself. Being a father of 3 with a demanding job would no longer be an excuse for not making time out to feed my soul. I've never quite understood the concept of 'finding oneself', but if it meant finding more out about myself then that would be a worthwhile experience, I think, but perhaps this is not so.
Only yesterday I was listening to Terry Waite. He was the keynote speaker at the Headteachers conference. It was a sober and thought- provoking precursor to , the more frivolous, beach volleyball and indulgent eating, drinking that would follow.

Terry had spoken in solemn tones if his 5 year captivity in Lebanon, during the 1980's. Most of this time was spent shut away in a small cell, on his own, in silence, sometimes in darkness with nothing to read.

He spoke about an 'inner journey' that he took in a desperate attempt to preserve his sanity. He described it like any other journey one would make by travel : exploring , opening doors, looking inside, questioning and trying to understand things better.
He described the 'good' that he found inside himself on this journey, but also the dark parts and 'evil' he found there.  He said that this discovery had disturbed him immensely and rather than securing his sanity, nearly tipped him over the edge.

It was surprising to believe that a man who had filled his life with numerous self-less acts of courage to save the lives of complete strangers could ever have such an evil within. Yet it was there and he had seen it. That time spent on his own was the vehicle of this discovery.  This resonated with me, as most of the activities I had planned to do now turning 40 were solitary. I was choosing to on my own. I will have plenty of time to make ' inner journeys' of my own and I can only hope that I'm not alarmed of what I find there.

Hadrian's : Every great thing must....

Breakfast wasn't the best at the Cornerways B&B, in Carlisle. The bacon looked like it had been cooked by body heat alone and, by way of contradiction, the egg had been crucified, a Wayne Bobbitt sausage completed the items on the plate which were all swimming in bean sauce. This was bewildering as I couldn't actually see any beans. I declined the extra round of toast and left as quickly as I could.  

The sun was shining, finally. Although this seemed like a wonderful backdrop for my triumphant procession to the end of the Hadrian Trail, it proved to be a hindrance. I got very hot, very quickly and, whereas, I had been cutting back on water over the last few days as I was not getting through 3 litres a day, now I was getting through the water fast.

 My mission was to walk the final 15 miles to Solway village and get back to Carlisle again before my train left at 3:30pm.  I got in the walking frame of mind early on and powered on.

I ignored the sights of historical interest, the beautiful view was now background scenery, even the iPod was off. It was a time for concentration and reflection.

It was strange to consider the  journey I had come on in just 5 days, and I am not talking about the distance. I had changed. I was now a confident walker ( although I hadn't cracked the camping thing yet). I had started today with no plasters on my feet and I was not missing them. I hadn't taken my daily dose of Nurofen and I didn't feel i needed it. My feet had toughened, the skin had become like leather. My shoulders had also changed shape, they felt stronger and wider. My calves and thighs were rock-hard and my buttocks could crush boulders...small ones. When starting out my backpack had felt awkward on my back, like giving a friend a piggyback on a drunken night out down the street. You're always relieved to put them down.  The pack felt natural on my back now, it was almost part of me, it actually stopped feeling heavy.

On the second day of the challenge I honestly had doubts that I could do it. I contemplated  giving in and was already preparing my excuses for those at home. Day 3 was the big turning point. It was as if my body had said to me, ' You idiot Rich! You did no training and look at what you've done to our feet!' My body rebelled, it ached me, it bled and blistered me and even when I wanted to rest, it would not allow me to.

On day three we had come to a compromise. I would ensure that we would try and sleep in a proper bed each night, if we could, but we would carry on with the walk and the body had better get itself sorted. To my amazement, it did!

I can't remember exactly when the last visible feature of the wall disappeared, but by the time I'd crossed the marshes around Port Carlisle, the trail was following a large grassy bank. The wall disappeared again and I lost the trail, my compass told me which direction it should take and I found a length of wall jutting out into the mudflats around the bay. I think that was the end of it. A sign said that a great Roman fort originally stood on the sight, but no visible signs were left. Things was danger of turning into a bit of a damp squib.

 I hadn't expected fanfares, or a welcoming committee with a ticker tape parade or a medal, but there was no ending. Nothing. I needed an ending, I needed closure.

Wandering further into Burness-on-Solway, more by habit than direction, I spotted a  wooden signpost I recognised, it was the final sign for the Hadrian's Wall path. I was so happy. It directed me to a small path that ran down to the waters edge. The tide was out, but I followed the path to a secluded garden where ornately carved benches were dotted around and at the centre was a small wooden structure. Carved above the entrance was the face of Emperor Hadrian and beneath, in red, were the words: "Welcome to the end of the Hadrian's Wall path, Ave Terminvum Vallis Hadirani Vagusta Pervenesti"
I have no idea what it meant, but that didn't matter.

 On the floor was a tiled mural of wading birds in the bay. It was nice, simple, but in some way fitting. I was satisfied I had finally finished. I had my end.

I took a moment to catch my breath and take it all in. I felt a strong and profound sense of achievement flow through me.

Moments later, I was joined by an Italian walker who'd I'd spotted several times behind me on the trail from Carlisle. We swapped stories and I asked him to take a photo of me, he obliged and then asked me to take one of him - with my camera! I did and he asked he immediately left quite happy that I had this memento of him being there.

I picked up my bag, took one last look across the bay, took a deep breath and left to find my way home.

Hadrian's : The Road to Carlisle

I left early on day 4, with a hangover, but eager to put some miles behind me.

I rejoined the trail near Cawfields Quarry and reached the highest point of the entire wall when I still had energy in my legs for the climb. The view from there was breathtaking, but as often was the case there was no one around to share it with.

I have met many people on The Wall walk, and when I do people are always polite and courteous and will share a 'good morning', a 'hello' or a 'hi'. There is a real and profound sense of mutual bonding around a shared experience. It is truly heart-warming!

However, I must say, I have noticed that an in-proportionate number of the couples I have met along the way happen to be middle-aged lesbians.
Now, hold on! Allow me to substantiate this comment by evidencing the fact they have short hair, no makeup, comfortable shoes and a noncommittal air about them.

This is an observation, not a homophobic remark.

In fact, I'll have you know, some of my most cherished jpegs happen to be lesbian.
It is merely an anthropological observation and I am sure they are all very nice people and good to their pets.

I pressed on to the small town of Gildsland when the path I was following crossed the A road to the south. It was a small attractive town whose narrow  roads were never designed for a large coach packed with tourists meeting a delivery lorry going in the other direction. The traffic had ground to a halt. It was at times like this I was pleased I was travelling on foot.

The next towns of Newton and Crosby were similarly contemporary with the look of the area, but rather spoilt by the inevitable appearance of KFC and Subway.

I was determined to make it to Carlisle by sunset. I was painfully aware that the patchwork of plasters on my feet had all detached several miles back and I had run out of replacements.

I stopped caring what the view was like or what point of historic interest I was passing by: I was, head down and 'in the zone' , concentrating hard on putting one put in front of another and keeping a fast and steady rhythm. This is where my iPod was a GodSend, with the setting on shuffle, I  used the fast tracks to beat out the pace and skipped over the slowies. At one point Bing Crosby, inexplicably, appeared in my ear singing a lullaby. Not now Bing! I could have done this that on my first night of wild camping.

I staggered into town feeling, finally, like a seasoned walker having put a good 25 miles in. I had used Carlisle as my goal, my utopia, my place of pilgrimage, as it represented the final significant habitation near to the end my journey. However, in my exhausted frame of mind and beaten body, I had a negative perception when it came to first impressions. The place looked run down and dirty and I thought the people had taken liberties with their God-given right to be ugly. (So says the steaming, smelly Gruffalow that just entered town)
There was also an extraordinary number of bargain shops all in one area.
The was Poundland, Less Land , Less than a Pound Land, Bargain World, Bargain Basement, Cheap Zone, Half Price Palace, Low Cost Castle and Cheapo Chappies all on the same street!

It was here that my brochure, obtained at the Tourist Information Office, told me the cheapest B&Bs were to be found. I found one called Cornerways and the doorbell was answered by a huge, red faced man in his 60's who spoke with a well-heeled, Home Counties accent. I know we mustn't make generalisation about people, but I presumed he had spent a long and  unsuccessful career as a Shakespearian Thespian before deciding to run a bed and breakfast with his mother. They probably lived downstairs together and would spend long evenings in  together watching reruns of Brideshead Revisited and the Onedin Line,  whist keeping her propped up and refilled with stuffing.

'Yaaaarss', the opened dramatically.

"I was wondering if you had a single room free for the night?" I was well aware he was making a top to toe analysis of me.

" I have one room left, the rate is 40 pounds sterling a night."

"But the Brochure says that a room is £30 a night?" I waved the brochure at him.
His eyes narrowed. "Yars, well that is our winter rate."

"Is that the winter as in the season or in climate 'cos it's still bloody cold?"

"It's the season!" I could see that the large door was slowly closing on me. The audible clack of another crushed vertebra under the weight of my rucksack prompted me to stop perusing the point and politely accept his generous offer.

The room was very small and I had to share a shower. ( Not with him and not at the same time, of course).

Before I showered I popped into a local charity shop and picked out an outfit for myself. Light blue shortsleeved shirt, said medium, but turned out to be extra large (£3), a dark, brown long sleeved cardigan with a blend of suede and corduroy, unique and another bargain at £4. I also bought some beige trousers that were never going to fit me for £3. I hoped the look might be so different as to be trendy, but at least it was clean. But I still wasn't.  I went back to the b&b, had a shower (alone), got dressed into my new/old threads, in front of the two-way mirror in my room and hit the town.

I found a huge Wetherspoons pub near the station, drank more than I should have done, given the circumstances and somehow managed to find my way back to Cornerways. The door was firmly locked. It was still earlyish, 10pm, but I had totally forgotten the code for the door lock I had been given when I checked in.

Reluctantly, I rang the bell. No answer. I rang again, still nothing. Just as I was going to consider what my next move might be the door opened. It was the landlord wearing what can only be described as a huge stripped nightshirt, come smock thing.

"I take it you've forgotten the code I gave you earlier? I did repeat it twice," You can consider yourself fortunate, we don't open the door after 10. That's what the code is for. They sleep on the door mat, they do."

Entering, I started to apologise, but we were interrupted by a dull, thud-like sound from the room behind him, he seemed alarmed at this and without a word hastily returned to the room closing the door behind him.

I can only presume his mother had rolled off her wicker chair again, spilling stuffing all over the floor.

I took the chance to nip upstairs to room 5 and barricade my door for the night.

Hadrian's: the best night ever!

The benefiting sleep at the B&B in Corbridge had given me a new lease of life. I was positively bounding along again now.

I entered the Northumberland National Park, which was as bleak, desolate and unforgiving as you can expect, but it had a harsh beauty of its own.

It is in this heritage site that the real conservation of Hadrian's Wall was to be found. All the classic photos of The Wall following crests of hills, stretching on and on into the distance were taken here. The path was relentless, like following the track of a roller coaster, up steep gradients and down steep banks. Just when you thought you'd reached the hill top you had spotted an hour earlier, The Wall continued, relentlessly, on and on, always disappearing into the horizon.

Knowing that there was no real 'end' made setting targets difficult. The path was remorseless and this was just as mentally challenging than physically so.

It was late on, when I had had about enough of the endless trudge. I had been lashed by rain, but, luckily,  blown along by a favourable wind that was at my back. I'd covered 25ish miles and I hadn't seen anyone in hours and it was getting late and very dark. I spotted a building a good distance away. I imagined a Slaughtered Lamb experience, or worse, another Boathouse, but this was nothing like it.

No sooner had I got in the door, I felt comfortable. For one, it was full of walkers, all swapping their stories of a day's stolid hiking. It had an effervescent atmosphere. It was a long shaped inn with the bar at the centre . I requested a tab and they didn't even ask for my card. The staff were all young and I got a  feeling that the boss was probably out for the day and, so, anything went.

I sat at the bar. Something I would never do at home, but if you want to get to know what's going on, that's where you should sit.

One of the barman,  David, was in his 20's and I couldn't help notice the devil's fork pronged tattoo that was protruding over the neck of  his black work shirt. He opened his shirt to reveal an intricate and unfamiliar symbol. It looked like a black star with a red eye in the centre. He told me that this symbol gave him magic powers of destiny. Intrigued, but mildly disturbed, I enquired further. He told me it was a l'Cie. I said I would Google it and David disappeared out the back. I brought my iPad to the bar and logged on.

One of the barmaids, who looked remarkably like a darker version of Amelia Pond, came dancing in from the kitchen wearing a cowboy hat and was taken aback to see me grinning at her.

I told her that I was Googling her colleagues tattoo, " You've only been here 5 minutes and Dave's shown you his boobies."

I told her that I'd now been there 6 minutes and hoped it might catch on. Naughty!

I discovered that David's tattoo was, indeed,a symbol of destiny, but it only seems to exist in ... the computer game Final Fantasy 7. The barmaids both seemed less surprised than I was. "Yeah, he's got loads of computer tattoos like that on him. He's even got the X Box symbol on his shoulder."

"And Donkey Kong on his arse?" I suggested.

They both laughed, but David immediately reappeared from the kitchen and we all went conspicuously quiet.

Together, during the course of a promisingly entertaining evening, we discussed tattoos, Amsterdam, the Banana Bar and ping pong balls.

The inn was filling up now with a melting pot of quirky characters from all nationalities. A quick check of my Weird-dometre and it was off the scale!

A lady approached the bar with a handful of barmats and two posters. She gave another barman, young Colin ,instructions to advertise tonight's entertainment. Steve Bonham , The Rambling Gypsy, would be performing tonight as part of his tour of the North of England. She was also insisting that all food and drinks for Steve and his party would be included in the deal. Colin seemed to be the one who was left in charge (if that's what you could call it) for the duration of the evening and bending like Beckham, he reluctantly agreed.

 I felt a little sorry for him, as, I too, had inadvertently managed to get £20 off my room, because I told him I was doing my walk for charity. This probably contributed to my coming to his defence later in the evening when some conceited, Michael Winner lookie-likie had approached the bar and raised his voice. I had entered the discussion part way through.

He opened " Can I assume that the rest of the menu is of the same diabolical standard?" Winner exclaimed tossing his menu over the bar at the fraught and overly apologetic, Colin.

"No, not at all!" replied the helpless Barboy. " Can we off you something else?"

" No! We just want a refund thank you! I don't think I can risk anything else for my wife!" Winner had his claws firmly in and he could smell blood.

Then he followed up with a finishing blow, which he gratified in the whole bar overhearing.
"That was! Without doubt! The worst chips I have ever tasted!"

I could hear my voice talking even before I realised it was me. I admit, I was four pints of Guinness to the better.

"No !" I blurted out, surprising Mr Winner and Colin  "There was this place in Milton Keynes once... Awful! Cold, soggy chips they were".

Michael turned to me, " We'll these were no better!"

" You know," I said, rounding in my bar stool to face him, " I reckon, if you try really hard, I am sure you will find places that sell chips much worse than this place."

He hurumphed, dismissively.

" I presume you sent the plate back immediately to the kitchen?"

He snorted, but it was Colin that spoke next. " No, they both finished the lot!" he interjected surprised at his own bravery. Winner gave him a withering glare and Colin visibly flinched.

"Just give me my refund!" Mr Winner purposefully turned his back to me and thrust out his hand toward Colin, who duly handed over the cash.

" I bet you do this everywhere you go?" I spoke into the back of his head. Winner ignored the comment and beckoned over his submissive, canary-like wife, who had already gathered up their belongings right on cue. They left in silence, under the glare of the entire pub.

I ordered another pint.

"Gahd,  I can't stand people like that guy". I was joined at the bar by Ken, a loud talking Canadian who had that amazing gift of being able to bellow loudly out of one side of his mouth.

"I'm here spending my kids inheritance!" He proclaimed.

Ken and Jenny, his wife, were walking The Wall. They had originally met in England in the 1960's and has settled back in Canada.  They were enjoying their retirement years traveling. And in some style.

" I've got a team of people, I call my Sherpas, who pick up our bags each morning and take them on to our next stop along the way. That way we can hike with just small back packs and our things will be waiting for us the next inn. Tomorrow, we are at the Samson Inn , we've got the Caligula Suite. It's got a king sized bed." He gave his wife a sideways wink and she blushed.

The entertainment for the evening, Steven Bonham, approached bar,and asked for a shandy and a coke.

" Want to keep a clear head for the night?" I suggested. He was a portly man in his mid 50's and sported purple trousers and a swanky, brightly patterned waistcoat.

I told Steve that I had just Googled him and found YouTube videos of him. This pleased him no end.

"Ah yes", he smiled, modestly. "Now was that the Hexham or the Brampton gig?" I had no choice but to admit, guiltily, that I hadn't actually been motivated to press play on either of them.

"Well, I've been doing the same set in pubs for the last two weeks." Steve was performing this evening with his daughter, an attractive blond in a flowery dress and a very ample fellow with implausibly thick glasses who was setting up the speakers and mikes.

"That's a tuba?" pronounced Ken, loudly.

"Oh yes," said Steve," that man there is the best player ...well, .... in ..." Ken and I hung on for the end of this sentence, " in Europe... at least".

The three of us looked over at the virtuoso tuba player, who was currently busy bending over to attach some low cabling. His bulbous backside, to which some jeans had sunk so far down they were only superficially covering the top of his thighs, knocked over a mike stand.

"Yes, a lot of folk music lends itself to the guitar and the tuba. It's a marriage made in heaven. " Steve clasped his hands together to illustrate the point. Ken and I looked doubtfully at each other, before Ken erupted, " Hey! Bonham??"

"Yes!" said Mr Bonham. I was equally perplexed.

"Any relation?" bellowed the Canadian.

" To whom?" Asked Steve.

"Led Zepplin, man?" Ken was clearly feverish about this. " John Bonham? The drummer, man?"

Steve now had both of his drinks in hand and was turning to walk way, "Oh yes," he said unconvincingly, "er...a distant cousin."

Ken watched in awe as Mr Bonham walked away, " No kidding? Did you hear that? That's amazing! They're related!"

Not wishing to bring Ken down, but I had to interject, " Ken? You and I are distant cousins".

The rest of  evening went superbly well and Steve, his daughter and his tuba prodigy were magnificent. Not a melody ended without everyone in the room remembering to applaud.
Late in the evening Ken's request for Stairway to Heaven was duly obliged on guitar and tuba and Ken's backing vocals were so strident, they required the speakers to be turned up. Half -cut Ken finished his performance with tipping half a pint glass of ale into his wife's lap, to the raucous amusement of all present.

All in all, it was a great night!

If you're ever in the area, I highly recommend the Twiced Brewed Inn. You will not be disappointed.

Hadrian's : exhibit number 2

I' d hit The Wall, ( nice pun huh? ) about 4pm, both my blisters had popped within 3 steps of each other. My blister-resistant (or so they'd claimed) socks had done little to stop me forming two 50p sized blisters on either foot. I don't know how the company , Regatta, can make such a bold claim about their socks, as they hadn't worked for the guy walking for two days. Maybe they hadn't been tested on people who actually walk in any remotely serious way. Perhaps they had been trialled on on old man, at home shuffling around in his slippers, from sofa, to the kitchen, to the toilet, back to the sofa again. I can imagine a whole team of scientists in white coats checking his feet and announcing,  "All clear Steve, let's go to manufacture!"

I needed to stay in a B&B tonight, my body was in pieces and I needed a guaranteed good night's rest. I spotted Corbridge on the map and managed to make my way there on a dangerous road, with no footpaths, but steep banks on either side which seemed designed to tip you into the path of one of the huge lorries hurtling by. The only benefit of having two limps at the same time is that it balances you out a bit.

I found a room for one at the Golden Lion, for bed and breakfast, all for a reasonable £40.
I told the barman which way I had walked to get there.
'You take your life in your hands doing that m'n'.

Fed and watered I went on to have the best sleep I have ever had. Seriously ever! A sleep blessed by the Roman God of sleep, Nocturnus (probably).

Corbridge is a lovely little, grey stone village, 'quaint' I think the Yanks might call it. It had boutiques, pricey clothes shops and seemed extremely affluent.

It also has very narrow streets. In fact, I discovered this as my unfrosted bathroom window was directly opposite, and almost touching distance from an art gallery. I could clearly see the details of the paintings hanging from the walls from my perch on the bathroom 'throne'.

 A group of serious, studious looking people, led by an elderly tour guide, entered the gallery from a far doorway. Partway through my contemplations I didn't feel I could get up to lower the blinds. And I have to admit to taking a wicked delight in the imagined remarks about to take place.
It would have gone something like this. "If we can move on ladies and gentlemen to the next exhibit, here we have.... A man sitting on the toilet waving at us'.   Priceless.