Of work and toilets...

I had nothing – and I mean nothing  - to do at work today so I wasted time as expected by surfing the net looking for jobs, nail foils and other odd things when I saw this –

http://www.toiletmap.gov.au/

I find it fascinating that some public servant is in charge of listing public toilets. Bet that’s a fun job. Anyway, it’s not the first time I’ve seen it. I wrote about it in Thigh High – an exceptionally Aussie themed book that a publisher thought would be a good series to do. It wasn’t. Too much Aussie confuses people. But there you go…

Thigh High….0.99 cents – what do you have to lose? https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-thighhigh-600244-340.html

Excerpt…

As for Amberwarra Falls—well, there were no “falls” to speak of. Years ago, before the crippling drought, there had been a trickling stream of water that ran over a rocky outcrop down into Possum Gully. It had never been spectacular but it had drawn the odd tourist to stop and take a photo before moving on. But not now. There was nothing to see but red, rough rock and dust. Even the possums  had left. There had been talk about changing the name of the town but that had been vetoed. As Beryl Adler, cultural guardian of all things local had said, “If we change the name we’d have to change the postcards and we got them as a job lot.” That was true. They had six hundred and thirty-two left out of six hundred and fifty purchased. No one was about to throw those out due to lack of water.

“I still don’t know why he’s coming back to bung in a gym where Davo’s book emporium burnt down. Not like we need newfangled stuff like that.”

It hadn’t been so much an emporium as a dusty old shop that sold tattered old books, comics, newspapers and once a week the local poker game had been held in the back storeroom. It was on poker night that the store went up in flames. Many said it was the cigars the men liked to smoke. Others blamed a mosquito coil used to keep the insects at bay.

The real reason?  The  fire  brigade  found  evidence  a  scented  candle  had  been burning during the game. It was thought someone had knocked it over. Of course no man admitted to it mainly because being caught anywhere near anything scented and girlie was not something any of them wanted to claim.

“Yeah, we don’t need new stuff in the Falls.” Dusty always agreed with anything Blue said. They were mates since kindergarten. “Besides we’re already on the map.” 

Maz rolled her eyes. She knew which map they were referring to. “That map is hardly prestigious.”

“Yeah, but if you look us up on gaggle—”

“Google,” Maz corrected Dusty.

“Same bloody difference.” 

Merlene picked up and rattled the swear tin at him. 

“Fair suck of the sav, Merle. Bloody’s not a swear word.” 

“Cough up, sunshine.” Merlene waited for Dusty to pay up for his swearing. 

“Jeez, you’re a mad cow. You and your bloody wombats.” Dusty threw a collection of coins into the tin. 

“You used two ‘bloody’s.” 

Dusty rolled his eyes and added a ten dollar note. “Happy now? Anyway, as I was saying, anyone  can see the toilet block in Captain Cook Park got Amberwarra Falls fourth prize in the cleanest toilets in Queensland.”

Maz smiled and wondered how Captain Cook would feel about being a namesake of a park that held a toilet block that was the second biggest attraction to the now nonexistent falls. There was  even  a shiny brass plaque proclaiming they were fourth best.

“Yeah, dunnies are important if you pass through Amberwarra as there’s nothing for miles until Krogan’s Crossing.” Blue slapped some more money on the counter for a refill.

Merlene pulled the beer, flicking the tap with an expert hand. “And your Auntie Beryl does a roaring trade with her crocheted doll toilet roll cover stand that she’s set up just outside those toilets.”

“That’s right.” Blue thanked Merlene for the beer. “Beryl does big business for the Pioneer Women’s nag-fest group and no one gets past her without buying one.” 

That was true. Auntie Beryl could sell toilet roll covers to aliens from Mars. It wasn’t so  much  she was a great salesperson or that the dolls were attractive. They weren’t. It came down to  the fact that Beryl, at fifty-three, with her fake raven-black locks and large breasts and forceful voice, often stopped people in their tracks. She was like an aging kewpie doll, complete with Doris Day bow in her hair. Once stopped, they often walked away with at least one crocheted doll and a few less  dollars in their pockets. No one said no to Beryl.

Yeah...we're a weird mob.