The etiquette surrounding cubicle toilets is a peculiar affair. More often than not it is overlooked, or omitted entirely, in all but the most colourful of late night conversations.

Now, cubicle toilets vary considerably in almost every fashion conceivable. There are the big ones, small ones, broken ones and windy ones. They come in blues and greens and hues of turquoises and mauves. Their location, their unique smell, their all to frequent lack of toilet paper! One comes across the older ones where the cistern balances precariously above one's head, usually dangling a remnant of brass chain from its right hand side. Then there are the ones without their seats. "DIE YUPPIE SCUM!" proclaim the backs of the doors on a good few. There is but one common item they all share. One item which bonds the word toilet with 'cubicle'. It is the half-inch sheet of compacted wood shavings, suspended in mid-air that separates one from the large, hairy, grunting troll who has invariably trundled in, heaving and sighing whilst perching alongside.

Firstly, when an architect's pen touches paper on the proposed ablution facility, who are they fooling when they design in a double cubicle. Is it to boast of facilities for more people? Is it to use up redundant space? Or is it really about a macabre desire to pit one human being against another in an astonishing and perplexing kind of ritual? Everybody knows that when one of the two cubicles is sporting the red 'engaged' tab, the other is an out-of-bounds chamber - an extension of the adjacent occupier's private space. Or do they?

If there's one thing in life more pleasurable than roosting upon a toilet seat with the morning paper, it's being paid to do it. A long, slow, meandering dump at the office during working hours would only be beaten by a free trip into space. Its a time for reflection. A time for quiet contemplation. A place where there is no nagging, whining boss; no telephone. One can happily sit there, revelling in one's own stench, dreaming of the weekend ahead, the weekend just past or just what some other bloke was thinking writing those things on the back of the door. I suppose being locked into those few, precious cubic meters gives one the sense of owning the space - which would explain why one feels so violated when an intruder takes the fucking liberty to occupy the adjacent grotto, quite happy and content (or perhaps just plain oblivious) with the knowledge that they are about to encroach in such a despicably foul and brazen manner. The painful truth of it is that once the intruder has taken that decision, there is no escaping the inevitable. No matter how fast you come to your senses, over wind the toilet paper in sheer blind panic and manage to tuck your bits and pieces in, you are bound to experience the full performance.

It is perhaps a flawed facet of evolution that one can get down to the job faster than one can un-occupy oneself. In caveman times, surely it would have been more to one's benefit to be able to escape with one's life if, say, a sabre tooth happened upon the the prone and vulnerable Neanderthal, mid-shit. It is, however, not the case. No sooner has the adjacent door creaked shut, when the belt then the zip then the sigh then the grunting ogre alongside explodes into a distressful earful of machine-gun-fire-plopping outburst, coupled with the stifled breath holding-then-suddenly-releasing heaving grunts punctuated with tearing expulsions of pent-up pressure and yet more plopping, splashing and grunting.

Panic struck, one is forced to concede to this flagrant violation in fear and fright. There is the desperate tugging to get the trousers back on while the other hand kind of flaps about trying to do something useful like anaesthetising the most violated sensory organs. It tries vehemently to plug both ears and cover the eyes before turning on the nostrils in fearful anticipation of what may drift through if that other limb doesn't hurry up!

Finally one finds oneself dressed and ready, kind of half bent over with the face scrunched up as that seems to do the best job of inhibiting the senses. Then, as it dawns on one that the door actually opens inwards and you've got to take that step back to get through, you see it. The tell tale belt buckle which seems to have done the unthinkable. It has encroached. It has gone the final step. It not only has transgressed and trespassed the final barrier of what is and isn't decent, but it has also identified the grunting ogre. Arthur...