Another bog blog

I have done some odd things in the service of this blog. But having been a newspaperman for many years, I'm over embarrassment. I'm all about getting the story.

Still I felt more than a  little creepy getting the art for this post. I also worried that there was more than a slight chance of arrest, or at least interrogation by law enforcement. Here I was, after all, at about 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning taking pictures of a public toilet.

In my experience public toilets - especially over the weekends - are the purview of the drug addled, the desperate, or those seeking illicit or fleeting company. They're called bogs in Glasgow for a reason. And here was I, in shorts and what my children call my wollen mugger's hat - I was going for a run - loitering outside the public facilities with a camera in hand.

That's not a good look, right?

But the point of my interest was that this toilet was exactly the opposite of my past experiences. The public toilets, as I have already written, are quite remarkable in this country, which is why I have, er, remarked on them.

Without putting too fine a point on it, I had just used the bathroom on Lyall Bay, half expecting to be accosted or to have to step over used syringes. The experience was totally surprising. Having seen from the rather modern-looking control board on the outside that the institution - for such it is - had a vacancy, I entered with some trepidation. Nobody was sprawled on the floor in a pool of vomit and there was a rather pleasant aroma, perhaps it was lavender? A hint of Marigold?

Once inside I pressed the lock button. A voice spoke to me, informing me very politely that I had 10 minutes. I half expected him - he sounded like a DJ on a Midwestern Country Music radio station - to ask me to "take a seat."

Then music began. Not country. Not rock and roll. But a soothing Jazz number. There I was, in a sheltered, nice-smelling little chamber with my own private entertainment playing over the speakers. It was rather nice. It could, in fact, cause people - people, not me - to linger. I had no idea what sort of alarm bells or other unpleasantness would occur should I outstay my 10-minute welcome. A parking ticket? An illegal dumping citation?

I left, but happy. It really is the small things in life that make everything else a little easier to bear. Little touches of civilization are pleasing.

That feeling has past now, and I accept that anyone who wishes to call me bizarre after reading this is free to do so. I just felt you should know - again - that New Zealand has bloody fine public toilets. And it is, after all, just about the story.