Thursday, 21 January 2016

The Time I got Stuck in a French Toilet Cubicle

When I was 9 my family went on a holiday to France. Now, I'm accustomed to certain conditions whilst travelling, four walls and a ceiling being very high on that list. Yes, someone had the bright idea for us to go on a 'camping holiday'. It was our first and last.

The tents were those big ones with multiple rooms, a kitchen, all those things that are meant to be inside a solid structure. Being a tent however, there was a severe lack in a restroom -- that was a communal feature.

One morning I awoke from my nylon peasant quarters and ventured to the restroom; a solid structure (finally, a familiar face) comprising of multiple sinks and individual cubicles, containing either a shower or a toilet. Little, naive, untainted-by-the-world, 9 year-old James entered one of these cubicles, locked the door and did what he needed to do. He then tried to leave. Tried to leave.

So, here we have a young lad: trapped in a French campsite bathroom cubicle, furiously banging on the door and walls surrounding him, calling for help, cursing his lack of French speaking, life flashing before his eyes. Admittedly, the latter was a brief experience. 

Hours passed by as I struggled on with only the bewildered French campers to hear my plea for sweet freedom. I resigned myself to my new toilet home; my future down the drain and present curled up and crying on the floor. I had entered the acceptance stage of the grief for myself.

Time continues and the world goes on; showers are had; teeth are brushed; bladders are relieved; but not my prison sentence. Now death would be my only relief.

With tears in my eyes I lashed out one last time at the door to my coffin. Mustering up the most hurtful thing I could say to this inanimate object, 'you stupid BLOODY DOOR!', I gave it an aggressive tug to match -- that'll show my defiance, I thought. The door then swung open with such ease, you'd think it was designed to do as such.

I walked back to the glorious polyester palace that I got to call my home like a naked Cersei Lannister strutting through King's Landing, forever changed.

In reality, I'd been gone for about 15 minutes and the door was just a bit stuck and in need of a really hard tug. My family were completely unaware of the traumatic events that went on and are, to this day, unknowing. From this I could've chosen to take a life lesson about persistence and approaching things from different angles. I haven't though. I just fucking hate camping.

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