In case you were wondering, I\’m not actually obsessed with taking pictures inside washrooms. That would be kind of creepy, I think. But I do enjoy snapping the odd W.C. if there are copious amounts of asbestos, graffiti, peeling paint, and/or a tasteful colour scheme to be found. Can you blame me?

Actually, now that I think of it, I\’d like the next washroom I photograph to be really over-the-top classy. Just to switch things up a bit, since my photo toilets thus far have been on the grungier, more unhygienic side. I\’m thinking something with lots of glass brick, fancy taps that take you a minute to figure out, a velvet fainting couch if possible, and maybe even little hand towels supplied by a woman whom you\’d feel obligated to tip on your way out. It would make a nice change from some of the places I\’ve taken pictures in, which look like they could give you malignant lung cancer. So if anyone can suggest an establishment that would have such a fine facility on its premises, please give me a shout.

Now, while we\’re on this lavatorial topic, I\’d like to mention that I\’ve got beef with squat toilets. Maybe I\’m spoiled by the porcelain pedestals we have this side of the Atlantic, but while traveling I can never shake the dread of having to use one of these things. The concept seems simple enough, right? More sanitary, even, and many would argue that using one is more comfortable and \”natural\” for the body, among numerous other advantages. But my fear is irrational. Squat johns simply freak me out. Where is the water? Why am I so close to the ground? Am I doing this correctly?

Anyway. I\’m going to end this gratuitously scatological post with my childhood toilet humour hero, the Captain himself. I\’d recommend this book for your younger friends, your older but more immature friends, or even for yourself (you poor thing — deprive your inner child no longer).