Two posh old gentlemen sit in front of me at a film screening at the Soho Hotel. As far as I can tell, they’ve only just met. They are drinking Chablis.
‘Trouble with having wine in the auditorium is that you always need to go to the lavatory halfway through the film,’ complains one.
‘Ha!’ chortles the other. ‘I’m so pleased that you use the word lavatory, too. There are so many ghastly euphemisms.’
‘Washroom,’ his new friend volunteers.
‘Restroom,’ comes the disgusted reply.
‘You know, I once even heard it referred to as the cloakroom.’
They shudder in unison.