"Please handle me gently and lift me up after flushing," the lever on the toilet tells me as I go to push it.
"Make sure you close me tightly. I tend to drip..." warns the cold water tap as I turn it to wash my hands.
"A little of me goes a long way," reminds the soap dispenser as I push on the button to extricate some of the pink liquid soap it holds in its innards.
"Please don't throw me in the toilet, I can't swim!" exclaims the paper dispenser as I yank on the paper to dry my hands.
Signs. Everywhere on the walls of the bathroom. Inanimate toilet fixtures** that I have been more or less successfully utilizing for quite a number of years, now come with instructions given by the fixture itself.
No. Not even close.
Weird and unnerving?
Very much so.
Out of place?
Appropriate for a primary school.
Every time I enter the school, I walk past the front desk. Looking at the receptionist behind the desk and at her actual cutesy-wutesy (hey, being scientific here) workspace, I'm almost certain that I am also looking at the culprit behind the dubious toilet-signage.
Every time I pass her I want to tell her: "Get a life woman", but then I remember that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Or cliches around flippantly.
So I won't.
And then I get home to my sorrowfully sighing and eternally melancholy fridge, the washing machine that threatens me when it doesn't get its way (Yes, the un-torched one too), and the house that was born a fridge in a house's outer shell, and I'm filled with gratitude that my toilet has thus far kept its thoughts to itself.
I deal best with complaints when my pants are not around my ankles.
Now, this is a sign I can get onboard with, and relate to.
* It is actually a bathroom, since the school is located in an old mansion. And really, there is nothing nicer than taking a quick bath in between classes.
** Not that there are animate ones here, the stupid not-Japan this place is.