Have you ever had to pretend to get the punch line of a joke? Of course you have, its happened to us all. It wasn’t until I had almost reached middle age that this one particular joke finally became clear to me. I’d explored the mysteries of Europe and Asia. I considered myself reasonably intelligent, aware and well travelled (but not to America). I’d spent over 20 years in the Navy ““ not a place where naivety lasts very long, I assure you – but one thing always confused me. What was the big deal about leaving the toilet seat up? (I apologise to US readers for using the word “toilet’ but that’s just one of our many differences, that’s what we call it. We suffered many filthy glares in fast food restaurants when we directed our boys to go to “the toilet” before jumping back into the car. Luckily a kiwi friend pointed out this word is not acceptable in polite US society and we quickly changed our ways). Anyway, back to my story. The toilet seat. Whoops, sorry, I’m not sure what I should actually call this very necessary part of today’s “furniture’ to avoid sounding coarse? In NZ we call it the “toilet seat’ but I’m confused. Is it a commode seat or a bathroom seat or is this small circular contraption with its large hole in the middle simply called THE SEAT? Do Americans recognise immediately “THE SEAT’ is not at the kitchen or dining room table, not offered to guests in a lounge, not even scattered around a pool or barbecue area?

I smiled and laughed at any mention of such a shocking crime as to leave the toilet seat up. But what was the joke?  Why did women ““ and some must be a sole female in houses full of males ie husband and sons ““ still seem to expect preferential treatment? Surely this is feminism in the extreme in our world of equality. Shouldn’t this lone woman be the one to ensure THE SEAT is always left up to accommodate the majority of her household?  Did ultra feminism reign in USA?

My first experience with American toilets was quite stressful. Landing in Hawaii at 4.30am, queuing with a million other travellers at the immigration counters for what seemed like forever, edging our way inches closer by the hour, our 8 year old daughter suddenly decided she had to go and go now. Dancing from leg to leg and assuring us she couldn’t hold on we set about re- navigating the miles of taped off lanes hoping all the people we passed would allow us to “jump the queue” and rejoin my husband when we came back. Sole occupants of the toilet area, with the dance becoming more frantic with every passing second, I stopped her using any cubicle. The toilets were all blocked. The water hadn’t flushed away in any of them. Realising the choice was fast becoming “use one’ or have an accident on the floor I conquered my extreme reluctance and ushered her in. Quick, hurry up! Before anybody comes. No-one was there, no-one must see we’d used a broken toilet. We’d just wash and walk out as if nothing unusual had occurred”¦Did I feel stupid when my daughter flushed before I could warn her not to and the whole room didn’t flood? You’d better believe it. Man, was I thankful no-one had seen my little display in the Ladies that morning. The story gave my husband long moments of mirth as we rejoined him.

I’d learnt though. This “thing’ with the toilet seat being left up has nothing to do with feminism but the design of this “device’ in America. I finally understood why a woman would need to check before sitting down in the dark. Ahh it was a great feeling, I finally understood the mystery of the smallest room.