Polly Gillespie: 'Get out of the toilet you moron'

What can you learn from my disabled toilet incident? Photo / iStock

Last week in the Herald "Rants and Raves" section I stumbled across a blood-boiling rant. Whoever the ranter was made me immediately want to have crazy sex with them. No, not really, but I was excited that someone had visited the inner workings of my resentful soul and stolen my words. How very sexy to be able slip into my soul like that.

The person was making the justified comment that people who park in disabled parking spots because they have a sticker, and send their able friend into the store, are completely missing the point and/or taking the piss.

The sticker is so that you, you poor infirm, elderly, arthritic, mumps-bearing person can park and only have to toddle a few steps to buy your Tena lady pads, broccoli, or cat food. It's not a free pass "Advance to Go. Collect $200" sticker. If your friend is able and going into the store, then you can park bloody anywhere. Stop taking the piss.

Why does this upset me so? Well, firstly it's stupid and selfish, but it takes me back to about a year ago. Nothing to do with carparks, but rather disabled bathroom stalls. Now, before you go all Kung Fu Panda on my ass, I need you to know that disabled bathroom stalls should be avoided if others are empty, and it's probably more courteous not to use one if you're not in a wheelchair BUT there is no law saying you can't use one. Go wild, it's totally within the law.

I was at Westfield, one of my fave places to do my zombie walk of shopping shame, and felt a sudden need to go to the bathroom. It wasn't one of those "Gosh I need to pee!" moments. It was more one of those "I've eaten something dodgy and if I pass wind it's going to be like a scene from Bridesmaids" moments. I shuffled, tight-buttocked to the bathrooms. Because of the nature of my ailment I chose the outer disabled bathroom. To be fair, this was a disabling condition. Just as I sat down and the 1812 Overture began in the tiny room, someone started madly pounding on the door. The glass was semi-opaque and I could see the outline of a man in a wheelchair. His voice was getting louder.

"What are you doing in there you bloody moron? This toilet's for the disabled. Get out of the toilet!"

My bowels were draining painfully. As I was wondering why the hell today while loudly stage-whispering "I won't be a minute!" the wheelchair guy was joined by a large security guard who also started pounding on the door yelling:

"Come out of there immediately."

Clearly neither of them had studied law at university. I continued to drain and continued to painfully yell "I'm trying my best! I won't be long!"

The pounding and yelling continued.

Finally, when I was finished, tidied, and my clothes back in order, I opened the door. A furious man in a wheelchair started hurling abuse at me as a burly Polynesian security guard mumbled uncomfortably.

"What are you? Stupid? You're a stupid, stupid idiot? You're a moron!"

By this time I had had enough, and although it was wrong of me (despite the fact that I had every legal right to be in the disabled bog] my filter slipped, maybe it came adrift in the loo, and all my "Pollyness" came out in a booming voice.

Before I repeat what I said, yes, I am sorry and yes, I still feel ashamed:

"Look shorty. I know your life is quite possibly shitty and I feel very sorry for you, but get a grip, take your hand off it, and learn to wait like everyone else!"

I marched off with my chafed bottom and 14 shopping bags as he called after me:

"Moron! Idiot! Moron!"

So the moral of the story is, don't take the piss with disabled parking, but feel free to use the disabled bathroom if the others are full, or your chicken enchilada was bad.

Is it wrong that I wanted to punch wheelchair ranter in the face? I didn't.

- nzherald.co.nz