Locked in the John

A few years ago I sauntered into the washroom (a bathroom for my US readers) at the office, happily singing a little tune. We have a single washroom on the first floor, which is a handicapped accessible washroom and we have a regular ladies room on the floor. By the process of elimination (sorry about the pun) , the single usually becomes the men’s room.

After a period of time (the euphemism) I went to leave. The door refused to budge. It seems the lock, which was buried within the handle, had ceased to work.

I worked at the handle for a while, and looked around for tools, but alas, no such tools exist in the washroom. I fell upon my only hope, I had to bang on the door and scream!

It was a quiet time at the school, and students were not around. The staff was all over and I knew someone would hear me. However, the seriousness of my plight was not considered by the staff, as I became the object of ridicule!

OK, I know it’s funny. The boss is locked in the toilet! But, truly, we couldn’t figure a way out.

WWKD (as in another post or two, it was What Would Klaus Do?)

We called him and he worked his way over to us. The staff was working on a lunch for me, sandwiches on thin bread slid under the door one piece at a time!

With a bit of pulling and shoving and cutting, I was saved! Thank God this didn’t happen at the end of a day, or when no one was around.

I would still be there! Who knew I was claustrophobic? I had never been locked in a little room for an extended period of time before. I had light, water and a place to sit.

If only the sandwich thing had worked!