The building I work in is quite old, but it was renovated several years ago by someone who clearly subscribed to the MC Escher school of architecture. Aerial walkways, hidden stairwells and passages to nowhere are common features of our office, so it is unsurprising that newcomers and visitors get lost. There are rumours of a guy who has been trying to find his way out of the archives for a decade and has survived on a diet of rats and rainwater. Apparently he’s an external auditor, which explains why no-one has been in a hurry to mount a search party.
Anyway, we often have meetings at the offices, so there are usually a few strangers wandering around looking bewildered and worried (okay, more bewildered and worried than the staff, at any rate). You can always tell the ones who have missed a critical turning while en-route to the toilet, because they look bewildered, worried and in a certain amount of torment. One such lost soul turned up at my office door earlier today. Now he was really lost, because my little corner is located on one of the flying buttresses at the extreme southwestern end of the building. It’s about as far away from the gents as one can possibly get, without climbing onto the windowsill (and yes, I have been tempted to do so, on occasion).
In addition to his bewilderment, worry and – at this point – quite pressing need, the unfortunate fellow had to suffer the ignominious fate of being led past the knowing stares of my colleagues as I guided him back onto the True Path of Relief. I wonder how many urologists are kept in business by our building?