Memorable moments: Love, sweet love, and a little squirt of soap

I live right next to Brennan Park in Waverton, which is a beautiful stretch of green, but its true crowning glory isn’t the trees or the harbor views—it’s the toilet.

When friends from overseas visit, I don’t just take them to the Opera House; I take them on a formal tour of the public amenities. It is a masterclass in automated hospitality. You walk in, and the door glides shut with a soft, futuristic click. Then, a warm, friendly voice fills the small space: "Welcome and enjoy your experience here!"

Before you can even process the invitation to "enjoy" a public restroom, the soundtrack begins. It doesn't just play elevator music; it plays the classics, including the theme of "What the World Needs Now Is Love, Sweet Love." There you are, in a public park in Sydney, experiencing a moment of profound, melodic encouragement in the most unlikely of settings.

When the "experience" is complete, the voice returns with a gentle reminder: "Thank you for using me. Please wash your hands." It then punctuates the request by dispensing a perfect, polite little squirt of soap.

I love Brennan Park, but I love that toilet even more. It is a rare and wonderful thing to find a piece of technology that seems genuinely invested in your well-being. In a world that can often feel cold and mechanical, this little booth stands as a beacon of programmed sincerity—offering music, hygiene, and a small, automated reminder that what the world really needs is a little more care and a clean set of hands.

Memorable moments: The Franschhoek flush

On a road trip through the Cape with my friend Chrisel, we stopped to visit her aunt, Tannie Tia. She lived in Franschhoek and was the personification of "Old World" Afrikaans elegance—posh, sweet, and surrounded by silver tea services and smartly dressed help.

The atmosphere in the drawing room was hushed and refined, which was a problem, because my stomach was currently staging a violent protest. Chrisel and I had indulged in a massive Indian feast the night before, and the spices were now demanding an immediate exit.

I excused myself and retreated down the hall to the bathroom, where I proceeded to deposit what felt like a biological weapon. I flushed.

Nothing happened.

I waited, heart hammering, and flushed again. Then again. The water rose, the contents swirled, but the exit remained stubbornly closed. Panic, cold and sharp, set in. I looked around the pristine room for a solution. I spotted a small bin, emptied its contents into the sink, and realized the bathtub was my only hope. I filled the bin with water from the bath and began a desperate, manual "power-flush," praying to every deity I could name.

After several frantic buckets and a near-flooding of the floor, the evidence finally vanished. I was sweating, my trousers were suspiciously damp from the splashing, and I’d been gone for what felt like forty-five minutes.

I walked back into the drawing room, trying to look "refined" while frantically rubbing my trousers with my hands to hide the water marks. Tannie Tia looked up with genuine concern.

"Graeme, are you all right? You were gone so long."

"Yes, Tannie," I squeaked. "All good. Just... admiring the tile work."

"Oh, thank goodness!" she sighed with relief. "I was worried you’d gone into the other bathroom. That one is giving us terrible trouble!"

I sat back down, took a sip of my tea, and realized that in the world of high-society etiquette, the difference between a "triumph" and "social exile" is exactly three buckets of bathwater.