vernplum
New member
My story (*bad* toilet story).
Peninsular Shopping Centre - home of Davis Guitar, Luther, Maestro etc. - I was shopping around one day and needed to pee. I walked around for a while and found one, tucked away in the corner. Strangely, there was a small kiosk/shop there staffed by a middle-aged Indian woman selling tisses and sweets and stuff. There were a couple of old Indian guys there too, chit chatting with her. As I went into the toilet, she smiled at me - the smile looked rather ominous.
Anyway, I had a piss, washed my hands and walked over to the hand-dryer. I put my hands under it and looked out of the door towards the woman, who was smiling at me once more. Then, I felt something on my hands - I jerked instinctively as I saw small brown flecks of something shooting out of the hand-dryer in the jet of air. I realised that they were small *live cockroaches*. I screamed like a little girl, shaking them off me. Maybe a dozen of them scurried away across the floor.
I looked up, half shell-shocked at the old woman, who was still smiling at me with, I now realised, a 'knowing' smile. She said only one word, in a broad Indian accent, baring her gold-capped teeth: "Cockroach!"
Never use the hand-dryer there. Never.
Peninsular Shopping Centre - home of Davis Guitar, Luther, Maestro etc. - I was shopping around one day and needed to pee. I walked around for a while and found one, tucked away in the corner. Strangely, there was a small kiosk/shop there staffed by a middle-aged Indian woman selling tisses and sweets and stuff. There were a couple of old Indian guys there too, chit chatting with her. As I went into the toilet, she smiled at me - the smile looked rather ominous.
Anyway, I had a piss, washed my hands and walked over to the hand-dryer. I put my hands under it and looked out of the door towards the woman, who was smiling at me once more. Then, I felt something on my hands - I jerked instinctively as I saw small brown flecks of something shooting out of the hand-dryer in the jet of air. I realised that they were small *live cockroaches*. I screamed like a little girl, shaking them off me. Maybe a dozen of them scurried away across the floor.
I looked up, half shell-shocked at the old woman, who was still smiling at me with, I now realised, a 'knowing' smile. She said only one word, in a broad Indian accent, baring her gold-capped teeth: "Cockroach!"
Never use the hand-dryer there. Never.