Intercity Toilets1
Travelling on an intercity train recently, I had cause (as one does) to visit the toilet, and to marvel at the door system. Now a lavatory door, as most people know, serves multiple purposes that I shall not list, but fairly high among them is keeping other people out whilst one is (so to speak) incommoded. To this end, they are typically provided with a lock that can be operated from within. Evidently the designers of the intercity train were aware of this, and provided a mechanism to lock the door. They also (one would think this would go without saying) provided a means to open and close the door.
So far so good, but this is where things diverge somewhat from the expected. For some reason — perhaps a good one, such as wanting to avoid the door to an unoccupied lavatory swinging open and clashing as the train rattles along, or perhaps a poor one, such as fashion — the designers decided to make the door automatic. Automatic in the sense that it moves itself, rather than in the sense that it detects someone’s presence and opens and closes appropriately (probably this sense occurred to them, but they sensibly rejected it after due consideration of the difficulty of the problem). Not being automatic in this second sense, they provided the door with a user interface. Now, going back to the typical toilet door that everyone is familiar with, the user interface consists of a handle for opening and closing and another handle (perhaps on a visible bolt, perhaps not) to operate the lock. These human input devices (to use the current terminology) are located on the fore-end of the door. While I grant that this location is largely dictated by engineering convenience, it has the advantage that it is close to the point of use; one wants to enter the toilet, so one approaches the door and the means to open it is immediately to hand. On leaving the same applies.
What of the intercity train toilet door? I have been here before so I know that instead of the on fore-end, the opening mechanism — a largeish round button — is located on the wall near the hind-end of the door. When I first encountered one I did have to look around for it, something that one from time to time sees the occasional unseasoned traveller do. Once they are inside, we don’t see what they are doing, but I can guess from my own behaviour on my first visit. They turn around and reach for the closing mechanism, because in pretty much every other bog they’ve visited that’s where it was located. On being confronted with a completely empty doorway (the door having been reduced to the merest sliver) they start to search, fruitlessly scanning the wall either side of the door up and down, then across the washbasin and above it, below it and to the right of it, until they have turned around completely. Now, in front of them, as it would have been the moment the first crossed the threshold, but cunningly located below the usual line of sight of any upright citizen, eventually they find two buttons and a whole A5 sheet of instructions.
It was these instructions that caught my attention on this trip. Previously the user manual had been confined to a sentence or two by each button, but presumably sufficiently many users of the facilities had misinterpreted these sentences and been interrupted in full flow by some other seeker of relief that the train operators felt the need to add clarification. That no interruption happened to me on my first visit was more down to the absence of any other would-be user than any astute reading on my part. But really! A user interface for a door that takes half a side of A4 to document?
Terminology
This small room contains no bath, so I cannot bring myself to call it a bathroom, even if to do so would increase the number of possible transatlantic readers of this piece.
