Open Writing

I don't often look in the windows of gents' outfitters, but after spending a riveting ten minutes outside a particularly exclusive men’s shop in town, I couldn’t help noticing a new dimension had been added to their plastic dummies.

My daughter and I had stopped to admire a pair of white translucent swim trunks that were clinging like a surgical transplant to an exceedingly life-like male model. I am not usually so fascinated by the frontal area of men’s sportswear, not without sunglasses, anyway, but on this occasion a certain built-up area had my daughter and I exchanging stunned glances and collapsing in giggles.

After a time we realised the glowering expression raging above the collar of a towelling robe was actually alive and belonged to an unamused shop assistant – who looked as if he might fetch a copper if we didn’t move on. Reluctantly we left.

So, women’s lib and the fight for equality has eventually reached the world of plastic. If feminine models come complete with curvy contours why shouldn’t their male counterparts? Even the toy kingdom has gained a small addition to boost sales.

In America boy dolls endowed with an extra inch of pink plastic which squirts water to order, are competing favourably with the female potty fillers. Who knows, realism may eventually bring forth hairy chests for Action Man.

I wish a little more realism had been practised in the situating of toilets in Huddersfield. Why are conveniences always so inconveniently placed? Why aren’t the larger shops better equipped? They are either hidden behind furniture, just under the rooftop, or in some cases not there at all.

We had spent what seemed hours of leg-crossing in one large store, desperately trying to muster enough control to reach the nearest ‘Ladies’ outside. When one daughter turned a delicate mauve and her blood vessels started to swell, I asked an assistant if we could possibly use their toilets. ‘Is it urgent?’ she enquired distastefully, sounding like a doctor’s receptionist. My daughter, last seen racing round the fuller figures, with bulging eyes, was pointed out to her and we were ordered to follow down the steps.

Near to bursting a main myself I was reduced to doing my hunchback impression of Quasimodo. We were ordered to stand outside a door while she found a key and by the time she returned our little dance of diminishing control had attracted quite a crowd.

Another occupational hazard for ladies with weak plumbing like myself are the toilets equipped with attendants – a sheer waste of humanity, it seems to me. They are either guarded by ex-ATS sergeants who have you standing to attention in straight lines and your penny in the centre of your left hand or the over-possessive nanny type, who escort you to the door, open it, run a cloth around the seat, then take it personally when you lock them out.

I like to feel this is one job I can manage unaided, thank you, given the facility.