There’s a small café in the town near me. In the lingo of older times it might be called a “greasy spoon”.
It’s not high-class fare by any means, and most of what’s on offer is probably higher in calories than it is in nutrients, but the food is tasty and consistent, the staff — most of whom, it seems, span at least two generations of one family — are always good-humored and kind and your coffee cup always gets refilled without having to ask.
Not six times, so still not enough for Mr Pink, but once or twice is always plenty for Mr Me.
Now, in this café, there’s one small shared lavatory, next to a tiny store room piled high with cardboard boxes of napkins, coffee beans and all the other rudiments of running a small business of high-turnover sustenance.
And on a recent visit there, for Saturday morning eggs, I noticed something that seemed important.
The toilet brush.
I’ll gloss over the specifics of why I noticed the toilet brush — it may be that not having to deal with the intricacies of intestinal waste is the main advantage Artificial Intelligence eventually has over humanity, but for those of us still in meat-space life’s standard daily vicissitudes apply.
And here’s the thing about that toilet brush.
It was pristine, or as pristine as a toilet brush can be.
Its bristles were still enamel white, and its holder had been supplied with some sort of liquid chemical enhancement which meant that any lingering residues of crap were sterilized every time the brush was returned to its place.
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