I know that nostalgia is not what it used to be but I am sure that there was a time when signs were easier to understand than they are today.
Take for example those found on toilet doors in any public building: gone are the days when we were presented with the choice between 'Ladies' and 'Gents'. It seems that 'Guys' and 'Gals' have a more modern feel. I even came across one set of doors that said 'Laddies' and 'Luvvies'.
Now please understand that I am not writing as one of those who wish the English language would remain the same forever. I just have a concern that one day I will be in such a hurry to 'pay a visit' that I will go in the wrong toilet.
As with most anxieties this concern is probably linked to an event in my youth that shaped my future thinking. I recall being in a youth choir during my school years and having to perform at Manchester's Free Trade Hall.
As 'artistes' we were ushered into the changing rooms somewhere below stage and told to wait until we were called. Just before we were due to appear in front of the expectant audience I must have had a touch of stage fright and urgently needed to find a toilet. I travelled around corridor after corridor until I eventually found a door with the word 'Gents' in big bold letters.
In I went and was happy to find that the toilets were empty; for a few moments at least. It wasn't long, however, before I heard voices which I soon realised were female. Sat in that lonely cubicle I had only two choices; I could make my excuses and leave red faced or I could wait it out until the crowd disappeared. Being the brave soul that I am I waited until the sound of ladies voices had faded. It appears that whilst I was 'engaged', so to speak, the caretaker had replaced the 'Gents' sign with a 'Ladies' one without checking if anyone was inside.
This experience has lead to the concern I have for the clarity of such signage. Now, it would seem that my worry is justified for we have started to move away from those containing words to pictorial representations. Most of them have simple block drawings of either a man or a woman which, in a bad light and on a full bladder, can seem a little unclear. Some establishments, in an attempt at being arty or clever, have engravings that seem designed to make you take a pause before entering whilst you take a closer look, thus slowing things down. This I don't need; at my time of life the whole process takes longer than I would like anyway.
Such things are not a problem on the continent where toilet boundaries are more ambiguous. I recall on one holiday to France stopping in a village only to find a communal loo where the females had to walk past the men's urinals to get to a cubicle. Added to this there was a distinct lack of seating facilities, offering no more than a hole in the ground with a chain hanging from the ceiling with which to hold oneself in a suitable position. Needless to say the daughters all refused to pay a visit on this occasion and thus waited cross legged until we happened upon a more up-to-date facility.
In this country, however, a 'privy' should be, by definition, relatively private. So come on Britain; I can cope with hand dryers that pump out cold air (that is why men wear jeans), I can deal with broken locks on cubicle doors (That is why we learn to whistle from an early age), I can even make do with over energetic flush systems on the urinals (that is why we hone our reactions on the gaming machines). I just need to be able to easily decipher what the sign means on the toilet door. If communication is to work it should do 'exactly what it says on the tin' (to borrow a phrase). Or should that be 'exactly what it says on the can'.
Toilet Signs
Caravans
I am really good at parallel parking but have to admit that I am only good when I have the right conditions. Bizarrely, I can manage it really well between two narrowly positioned cars yet when I have to park next to the curb, and I have acres of room, I fail miserably. The same is true when towing a trailer; given the reference points of a narrow gate opening and I am a show off at reversing; in an empty field I am faced with too much choice and I look like a buffoon. Of course at my age I have years of experience to call on (reversing that is – not looking like a buffoon).
When our daughters were younger we were kindly given a caravan so that we could upgrade from the usual canvas holidays to ones with a few more luxuries; and when I say luxuries I mean curtains that don’t meet in the middle and lights that hint at being good enough to illuminate your world.
All packed up we set off for Cornwall with ideas of hot weather and rolling seas in our minds. My only concession to my inexperience at towing was a pledge to not go down any road unless I was sure that there was an exit at the other end. Reversing a trailer, after all, is for farmers and show offs. There seems to be a rule for family holidays that it set to try all parents; whenever you need a toilet/garage/restaurant you cannot find one.
When the noise of hungry children was at its loudest, we decided to stop at the next café for some well earned nosh. We drove for miles trying to convince the children that it wouldn’t be long before we found a food outlet.
Nearing desperation we spied signs for a country pub offering an ‘all day menu’. It looked to be a decent pub on a decent road, complete with children’s play area.
As we headed off the main road I saw two signs that made me break out in a mild panic; the first was a declaration that we were entering a dead-end. The second was a sign indicating that the road was un-adopted with the implication that it would be uneven.
By the time all of this news had sunk in it was too late to do anything about it and we could see the welcome sign in the pub window. We were all so tired and hungry that I decided to park up and worry about getting out after we had eaten.
Once all the feeding and watering had been done we returned to our vehicle and mobile home ready for the rest of our journey. I look at the car, then look at the road, then looked at my wife and kids and decided to make them feel proud of me.
It was a nightmare; not just because I couldn’t get the car and trailer to face the right way but because the beer garden was full of people watching every turn of the steering wheel. Some looked sympathetic, some where laughing and I swear I heard one or two of them clapping.
I tried for about a month (that is to say ten minutes) to make it work but I just kept ending up in more and more trouble. It looked more like I was trying to fold the car and caravan in half than turn it round.
Eventually one of the lads in the pub came over to offer some help. He explained that he was a lorry driver and that he couldn’t watch anymore as it was too painful an experience. It took him seconds, and I mean seconds. I swear that he even used just one finger on the steering wheel in an attempt at adding to how ridiculous I looked.
My daughters cheered, my wife said an embarrassed ‘thank-you’, and I went with the driver to the pub to buy him a drink. I walked back to the car feeling like a young buffoon determined to never try reversing a caravan again.
Like I said; Reversing a trailer is for farmers, show offs and smug lorry drivers
