Travisty

Amy and ‘Little Nell’ rate Great Court’s best (and worst) crappers in this absolute stinker.

G

Pleasingly nautical atmosphere on the ascent to the toilet. Padded staircase (has its charms, like an asylum). Toilet displeasingly nautical. Unclear how anyone above 5 foot 3 could assume a sedentary position. Descent likely fatal (especially as knees recover from being up-close and personal with the chaplain’s information document). Chaplain’s information document not correct, but not as incorrect as others.

Shots of whiskey needed to recover: 1.3.

H

This is really not bad. I didn’t think so at first; the ascent, between pale blue wainscots, is (as per usual) broad, but the staircase to the highest point is more than usually narrow. A wooden gate imperils access to the ultimate landing. Unfortunately, nothing is up there but a double set and an extraordinarily filthy kitchen. Life and limb were in danger as I struggled to prevent the gate from slamming behind me and knocking me down the narrow stairs. But joy awaited me at the bottom. An unpromising red-lettered sign on the door requests that users keep the toilet clean, but inside I found a pleasant, airy little room with a sink. The peaceful pale blue and white scheme offers a slightly French experience, like the toilet of a seaside restaurant with faint Gallic pretensions. I experienced some anxiety as I contemplated the apparently empty paper towel dispenser (there is no dryer), but to my surprise and delight, it provided me with a white expanse of paper towel of unobjectionable quality. The toilet was so charming that I did not require the entertainment of contemplating the welfare lists on the door, which in any case is to the occupant’s left and not directly in the line of vision. I am not even sure that there was one. It would have been unnecessary: my mental health was abnormally good throughout my stay and I descended with happy memories. I will be back.

Shots of whiskey needed to recover: it was ten am; 1.

K

Instinctive reaction: ‘I do not rate K’. Lowest in great court thus far. Labyrinthine—good. Yellow walls—not crazy about, madness inducing. Convenience has triumphed over comfort, and indeed charm. There is a sink, there are no vertigo inducing stairs. But there is none of the esoteric kind of entertainment brought by perilous stairs and sinkless retreats. It is also not very clean. It’s not a basement, but it feels like a basement. It’s on the way to being Whewell’s, with the hot windowless mustiness, but without the security of knowing it could reliably be repurposed as a nuclear bunker.

And on the note of nuclear fallout, the chaplain’s document is high up and far away. Would not know whom to seek comfort from in the event of nuclear winter. But that’s fine because you wouldn’t survive it in Great Court K’s ground floor bathroom anyway.

Shots of whiskey needed to recover: I feel slightly too

ill for whiskey, actually. I had one anyway, but in bed,

for extra comfort and security.

L

 This review has to start with the inopportune omen of the lights apparently not turning on. We prodded at the light switch in vain. And inopportune this quest was. We did encounter Ray Umbrella. He looked pale, clutching Trinity Port. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms; ‘alone and palely loitering’ was really the only way to put it. Rough-hewn logs set apparently at random into the whitewashed walls, and a prevailingly green paint job, enhanced the Mirkwood atmosphere. In a similar vein, we noted a rope instead of a banister (not merely nautical: Nelsonic!) available for your ascent (and ultimately, your survival). We retreated to…

M

We ascended to the temple-toilet at the top of the ceremonial peak. We risked life and limb to do so (very literally) as the architect behind this was presumably from Oxford (or Johns, or The North) and seeking to cull Cambridge students. I would not want to take on the stairs drunk, or indeed sober, for that matter. A breathalyser is recommended as a necessary safety precaution.

The set-up is faintly evocative of a jungle gym, or posh nursery (red doors, white walls, slidable banister). The stairs are steep and illogically placed. It is impossible to know where (and whether!) your foot will land as you exit the toilet (or your bedroom, should you endure the occupational hazard of living in M).

The toilet paper is tactically concealed. Below your knee, nearly against your calf. About 6 inches from the floor. It elicited cries of amusement, and perhaps delight.

The window was castle like. The chaplain’s document was correct. Would consider returning for light entertainment, but unlikely to risk to vertical ascent (and probably impromptu, involuntary and likely fatal vertical descent).

Shots of whiskey needed to recover: Amy: it clarified to me the dangers of alcohol better than an informational video ever could. Molly: one, from the bottle.

N

The best analogy for N is that of the ostensibly appealing serial killer, if that serial killer were a staircase and toilet. At first appearances it’s nice! A capacious sink, independent of the wall. Personality, too, in the tale told by the worn window ledge, except from the white book decrying roof climbing, and glimmering new window restrictor 😦

But we should have known by now. Any ‘normal’ toilet in Great Court is simply too normal to be true. The paper, for a start, is disconcertingly rippable. The flush, unnervingly weak. The signs were there. The hand washing one was upside down. Like any serial killer seduced maidens, we were delighted at first — only then did we take note of the warning signs.

The real problem came when we tried to leave. The stairs had seemed fine on the way up. But on the way down, their definite slant to the left was unmistakable. We should have seen the priest-hole-esque chasm, the sort of place, we reflected, where you could conceal a body. And there could very well be a body, as even at five-foot-two-point-five, my head almost came to blows with the ceiling. The yellow and black danger tape was only apparent on our descent.

Like any good serial killer, the signs were there but so concealed in the initial excitement of new romance, they really didn’t seem to be. Happily, we escaped its grasp. N staircase has not made it to onto a sensationalist podcast. Yet.

Shots of whiskey needed to recover: the rest of the bottle.