Small rooms big secrets!

“What,” asks that clever little advert on the TV, “does your toilet say about you?” What indeed!

One is inclined to say that it graphically indicates which room it is that one uses for one of the less pleasant bodily functions, and that there may be olfactory indications which point to this conclusion. The masking ‘fragrances’ that are sold point just as unequivocally towards the reality of defecation; just as the knitted dolly toilet covers (do they really still exist?) emphasise the presence of a toilet roll rather than allowing it to blend in with the rest of the knitted accoutrements of the well stocked smallest room!

We Brits have been chuckling, snigger and downright laughing at toilets since the time that time began. We have it on reliable authority that even than grim dwarf Queen Victoria WAS amused by lavatorial humour: one imagines Disraeli’s weekly audiences with Her Imperial Majesty (Empress of India) talking about the State of the Empire being enlivened with witty little farts to emphasise relevant points of national importance.

The sea side humour of postcard artist Donald Mcgill continues to delight viewers, and the toilet was one of his staples resources on which he lavished his art. The Cheeky Chappie, the comedian Max Miller captivated audiences with jokes from his ‘Blue’ book which also relied on the bathroom for much of his humour. The toilet is a vital part of our national life.

What if it does smell? That is part of its enduring comic appeal: stinks and laughs – that’s what bodily chemistry is all about.

But if the toilet can speak volumes about you, what about the rest of the contents of a normal bathroom?

The world is divided into two camps: those who put away and those who display. This is not necessarily applicable to all aspects of life – though the more I think about it, the more I believe that I might have stumbled on one of the great secrets of life. I am applying the division to the impedimenta that makes a bathroom the interesting place that it is.

I am referring to the oils, the unguents, the balms, the lotions, the pastes, the perfumes, the medicaments, the fluids, the potions, the bottles, jars, tubes, packets, sachets: the evidence which allows you to paint a true picture of the inhabitants who own the bathroom. The bathroom, viewed carefully, tells us more than any guarded conversation can. Here is personality stripped bare (!) where each bottle and jar shouts the truth about the inner personality of the user.

Too often the open display of tasteful accoutrements is only a surface truth which can clearly be discovered when the bathroom cupboard is open to critical view. Do not be deceived by a seemingly artless confusion of bottles and cartons scattered along grubby shelves. Dig deeper in that hard to get at drawer partially hidden by a cunningly draped towel and the truth will leap out at you.

God knows the perfumery companies have spent countless billions in persuading us that the right name on the right bottle is the only accompaniment to socially acceptable smelling. They have lavished obscene amounts of money and talent in producing bottles which are works of art. Take, for example, the sailor’s torso which is the packaging for Jean Paul Gautier. Admittedly the ‘sailor’ is nearer to Genet than Grimsby, but the elegantly homophile kouros-like mini sculpture reeks of style.

I had thought that the toothbrush was outside this area of snobbery. You were either a manual up-down-side-side etc labourer or you invested in one of the many electrical versions. All of the electrical versions of the simple toothbrush are bulky and speak more of the dentist’s surgery than of the artist’s studio. The problem, of course, is the energy. Or, as so many have asked in different situations, where do you put the batteries?

Some electric toothbrushes seem to need their own power station to generate enough power to bring the thing to life, while others seem to have wedded the idea of the garden hose to hi-fi to get the molars clean.

As a self-confessed gadget freak I have worked my way steadily through the (cheaper) range of electric toothbrushes and, stashed away (in one of those hard to get at cupboards) are probably enough dead carcasses of passing electronic fancies to fill a small display case in the V&A. They are dangerous mistresses, and you have to beware of falling to their sensual promise of effortless frottage. You know you have to stop when you teeth become transparent and enamel is a thing of the past!

Imagine my horror when, today, in Boots, I discovered a toothbrush which eschewed the clumsy bulk of a battery operated toothbrush, had no power lead, and yet was svelte as a young manual toothbrush. Behold the ‘Pulsar’ – as thin as a normal brush yet with the power to shudder and probe. This, surely, is the only time in the history of the world when developments in multi-bladed shaving have had a knock on effect on tooth brushing!

This masterpiece of design is even cleverer than one might think. The instructions tell us that, “No need to change any parts. Includes non-replaceable, disposable Duracell battery.” The hell with carbon footprints, this is conspicuous expenditure write large by being so cleverly small.

And because humans are humans and always will be, there is a little diagram showing how to open the device to get at the battery. Because we think that we can break the cycle of disposability by correct thinking and slip in a battery of our own. But, alas, we will not have read the small print which states, “Product is not designed to be opened unless for recycling.”

Our curiosity and parsimony drive us to explore, and that very exploration destroys.

I can’t help feeling that, were I a vicar, there might be a sermon (or two) in “Product is not designed to be opened unless for recycling.”

Amen!