There are the mothers who leave their child alone to fend for himself, to navigate the inanities of Westfield auto-flush. Out he comes, clutching a pair of elasticised pants in a clammy hand, waiting for Mummy, who is still busy fishing around in her handbag for a fresh pantyliner.
There are the mothers who wait outside, humming show tunes and glaring at me.
There are the mothers who go inside with Lil Jimmy, and watch him do his thang, talk to him about how to position himself, wipe down the toilet seat, and then smile guiltily at the next person going into the cubicle.
This is Part 1 of why I hate Westfield. More, more, plenty more to come.
