Norwich Cathedral and the Automatic Flush

Friends have told us Norwich cathedral is one of the great ones, a friend of a friend was of the opinion it was the finest of all. Built between 1096 and 1145, one can only imagine the thoughts of the newly conquered Saxons as they saw this huge and powerful homage to God emerge from turmoil and dust. 

My thoughts were less sanguine, largely because of the toilets. 

We both went, and things went according to plan—as you’d expect—except when it came to flushing away the excrement. I looked around for something to pull or press. Nothing. 

I looked more closely, feeling the first stirrings of unease. Then on the wall, I saw a small stainless-steel plaque with an even smaller blue-glass disc, and the words—Automatic Flush.

This was new to me. What did it mean? 

I assumed at first it would be akin to these new post-covid taps, the ones you no longer need to touch. A languid wave of the hand under the spout summoning water. Some toilets too have buttons you don’t have to touch, the mere proximity of a finger sufficient to activate the flush.

On that basis, I waved brought my finger close. Nothing. I touched it, pressed it, stroked it. Nothing. I began waving my hand like a mother’s farewell to a son off to war, tried pressing the plaque, eventually reduced to studying it like a chimp presented with an iPhone. 

This was embarrassing, leaving an unflushed toilet is one of those unspoken but unforgivable sins peculiar to our time, less so for the stonemasons who built the cathedral perhaps. And the toilet was busy. Behind the cubicle door I heard the sound of taps and hand-driers. I was trapped, at least until the toilet was empty.

Silence at last. 

I peered through the cubicle door, prepared to make a quick and furtive escape. And, as soon as I closed the door behind me—a gush of water as the automatic flush did what it was designed to do. 

Human nature being what it is, the experience soured my views of what is undoubtedly a magnificent Cathedral though not so inspiring as its neighbour, Ely Cathedral. To look up is to be reminded of the craftsmanship of what we deem a more primitive age, the use of light and stained glass, the Caen stone transported from Normandy, cut with machine like precision. 

Off from the nave, in St Luke’s Chapel, is the Dispenser Reredos, given to the Cathedral by Bishop Dispenser of Norwich sometime between 138 – 1400. It was likely painted in the locality by a Norwich artist and is seen as one of the finest European paintings of this period. 

The five panels show the flagellation, the carrying of the cross, crucifixion, resurrection and ascension.  

 

When it came to leaving the Cathedral, I resisted the impulse to make a small donation. If they could afford ‘Automatic Flushes’ designed to confuse the innocent and pay millions in reparations for nebulous involvement in the Slave Trade, they clearly didn’t need what I’d rather spend on a pint of Saxthorpe beer. 

And in lieu of a blazing log fire this, in my opinion would be the perfect place to enjoy it, and not a pesky automatic flush in sight.