As you know, I have a bit of an issue when it comes to public restrooms. Namely, that they are revolting places, humiliating torture chambers wherein one is forced to assume vulnerable postures within close vicinity and palpable earshot of revolting bodily functions.

I don't like them.

Fortunately, at work, there is an infrequently-trafficked set of men's and women's rooms, set away in a dark corner far from any offices. The men's room can accommodate two users, one sitting and one standing; the women's has facilities for two sitters. I came to know this tonight under the most horrifying circumstances of my life.

I had just missed a bus home, so I had some time before the next one came. Since it was late in the day and few people were about, I snuck off to the rarely-used WC ... only to discover, upon entry, that it was in the process of being sanitized by a nervous man with a moustache.

We were both mortified to see each other.

"Oh, I'm sorry," we both said at the same time, like some kind of terrible sitcom love scene. To make matters worse, we then both said, "oh, no, that's okay."

I backed away. The bathroom was very small, so this involved a lot of tiny steps around his massive wheely yellow garbage can.

He advanced. "It's okay, it's okay," he kept demanding, gesturing inward.

"No, it's okay," I replied. I had no idea what I meant. At this point, I'd backed up far enough that I was in the door of the men's room -- inches from safety.

"Here, in here," he said, stepping up against me in the doorframe and leaning to push open the door to the women's room and gesturing for me to use it instead.

"Well, thank you very much," I said, my eyes wide and terror gripping my heart. I suddenly found myself alone, in the women's room, at the start of the third week of my new job.

Well, what could I do. These bathrooms were in the furthest recesses of the building; it was nearly 7pm. "There's no chance any women will come by," I thought as I stood unhappily in the handicapped stall, availing myself of its furnishings as speedily and emphatically as I was able.

And then two women walked in. Chatting. One of them lept right to the adjacent stall, and the other, horrors, stood at the sink and adjusted her hair. I know this because, in my state of panic, I could hear the foofing of her hairs as my endorphins prepared me to fight or flight. Which option to choose? I could bolt -- a strange man, unidentifiable in his speed, tearing out of the female employees' room. Or I could fight -- not physically, of course, because I'd lose; but, I thought, perhaps I could engage these women in debate, accuse them of wrongdoing, order them out of the room in an indignant huff.

And then the foofing hair-lady simply strolled out. I waited three seconds and charged from the room at full steam, running -- flat-out running -- to the bus stop, leaving the remaining lady to wonder uncomfortably why someone with men's shoes was using the stall next to hers.

I hate my life.