One hand oozing white goo while holding your neck, the other pushing your shiny new briefcase ahead of you through the rush hour crowd, you sprint for the washroom, only to find a sign reading "closed for maintenance" blocking the entrance. "What ever!" you think, as you leap over the sign and into the empty washroom and land with a squish.
Following quickly on the heels of the squish, comes a splash. And a squeak. The latter, though you would later describe it as the sound your shoe made while beginning its ascent, is in fact your panicked utterance as you notice the room tilting at an alarming angle while your body, aided by the near-frictionless surface of the wet and goopy floor, begins rotating, now in mid air, now recalling the force of gravity, now landing on the aged and cracked tiles.
You notice that your landing didn’t hurt too much. Didn’t feel like a tile floor. Feels, now that you’re determined which way is up, rather too soft. And aromatic, but not in a pleasing way.
“Careful, bud,” comes a voice from a toilet stall. “Number three’s gone an backed up on us again. Real bad one, this time. Must’ve happened some time after last night’s Curry Festival, judging by the... ooh, buddy, that suit ain’t new, is it?”
Still rather dazed from your tumble, you mutter “damn, you can see the bird crap, eh?”
“Er, bird, sir? Best you have a look in the mirror. I hope ya ain’t goin’ anywhere importent.”
Bird indeed. A flash of movement pulls your eye to the window on the far wall, and there you see a gull on the sill, and though it only has a beak for a mouth, you get the distinct impression that the bird is leering gleefully at you.
But ornithology will have to wait; you hear the PA announcing the departure of your train in one minute! No time to clean the bird doo-doo, no time to figure out what soft goo broke your fall and is now clinging to your new navy blue, no time to wipe the slightly viscous liquid from your new briefcase. You pick yourself up, grab your bag, and bolt out the door into the crowd.