I once started to write a novel. The opening paragraph went something like this:

Two men stand urinating, shoulder to shoulder, in Euston Station’s public toilets. However, the next time they meet only one of them would be holding his penis.

I didn’t say it was a good novel.

But I’ve always been struck by the etiquette of public toilets. Civilisation, as much as it has advanced, is still tethered by the fact that we can’t escape our bodily constraints…

I’m not talking about cubicles (here’s a tip for you who prefer a fresher bowl – statistically the cleanest cubicle is the one nearest the entrance door), rather the urinals.

I think it’s safe to say that of the common types, perhaps the most bestial is the trough. The one where you get a constant flow of other peoples urine passing you by as you create your own.

Yet despite this, there are still strict social conventions to follow – When selecting a urinal, or a place at the trough, it’s the done thing to calculate the maximum distance from any other users… don’t just wander up next to someone else in mid flow when you could be stood at the other side of the room.

Similarly, conversation is frowned upon, as is looking anywhere other than directly ahead, at the wall in front of you.

And talking… not the place, much less so for laughing too, for fear that you will instill an embarrassing case of bashful bladder in your comrades.

Then there are the intricacies… you walk into the room and the only one left is the obligatory child-height urinal. Do you use that, or do you wait for a more reasonably positioned one to become free?

The anxiety of performing a faux pas.

Fortunately it’s not all stress. There are plenty of things to keep you amused. Sure, in some of the more impressive modern facilities they even have television screens placed conveniently over that bit of wall you used to have to stare at. But even in the more low-fi establishment you can find reading material in the form of graffiti (again, depending upon the sort of place you are, some of them read like a phone book of obscenity).

My favourite piece of writing is the usually placed at the bottom of cubicle doors, by the gap, that reads, ‘beware limbo dancers’. There are some better ones here, at The Writings on the Stall.

Failing that, the cleaners very generously place urinal cakes for you to aim at, to pass the time as you pass.

In days gone by these would have been accompanied by cigarette butts, giving enough pieces to create elaborate board games, similar to table hockey.

I guess I’m just a little disappointed that we haven’t really advanced, or found a better solution for dealing with this particular function. Surely the time is up and the writing is on the wall…