“My dear boy; Jonathan, is it? Might I perchance trouble you with a common request.

You see, I am in dire need of a moments privy in the House of Office, so to speak. A little direction, if you would be so kind.”

“What?”

“Is there any possibility that I may venture by way of the vin. Or perhaps, given the appearance of your colourful clientele, asking the location of the Khazi would be a more colloquially accurate question.”

“What?”

Any Johns or Jacks, here or thereabouts?

“Who?”

“Where’s the crapper?”

I stand in front of my dryer, watching the dial slowly wind. The squeaking joints sound like frenzied birds in search of release.

There is life left in the old girl, but you can hear the end is near.

The time will come, wasted and worn, where man and machine will find a final resting place on the scrap heap.

If those apocalyptic films are anything to go by, one will be the cause of the other.