Two days ago I had the surreal experience of showing a famous academic where the bathroom was. My college was hosting some conference on churches or theology or some other thing that presumably means something to God but not much to anyone else, and so our house was invaded by a sea of obese and religious Europeans. So as I’m wading through a crowd of well-fed Europeans so I can get to tea and cake on time and I’m silently cursing all of them for delaying my cake eating, a woman stops me and asks, “Do you know where the toilets are?”
I rather lazily pointed in the direction of the bathroom, and as I did I caught sight of her name tag. Holy crap. “Jane Doe.” I’ve read her stuff. My tutor has mentioned her almost as many times as he’s mentioned trees, and if you know anything about my tutor you’ll know the man loves himself some trees. OH MY GOD. Jane Doe said “toilets” to me! I helped Jane Doe have a (I’ll assume) successful bowel movement!
I wish I hadn’t just lazily pointed. I should have escorted her. I should have shown her Lambeth Palace, which is what I’ve started calling the handicapped bathroom that is about twice the size of my bedroom and that has fine soaps that the regular bathroom doesn’t have, which I guess is supposed to make people feel a little better about being handicapped. Then again, I’m fine with just lazily pointing. After all, bitch got between me and cake.
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