Capturing the zeitgeist of the moment?

Public loos and wild weeing

Since the world appears to be in the midst of a global pissing contest/ being flushed down the toilet, perhaps the time has come for me to write something highbrow and profound, relevant even? Well sort off. Let’s talk about public conveniences and wild weeing.

The Romans of course, took public loos to standard that mere mortals can only aspire to. Sigh, everything is always better in Rome.

When I was a tot my father used to take me down the steps in the lavatory bowels of Victorian London. I remember the stink of urine, shining dark green tiles, troughs over which I was suspended in order to wee despite the intimidating stares of full grown men in stripped city suits.

If we were out in the wilds then the order was ‘Tootie down’. I always thought that was a baby word, that we grew out of, but actually it’s a Welsh word meaning to crouch down. We didn’t grow out it, we moved to the south of England. (The other Welsh word left over from my babyhood is to cwtch up, or cuddle up; a lovely word.)

Undoubtedly, my worst experiences of public loos was whilst backpacking around India in the mid-1980s. At the time, question three on the etiquette list when meeting other travellers, after your name and country of origin, was to enquire ‘solid?’ Usually the answer was a knowing painful shake of the head to which the sympathetic response was to offer an Imodium- the equivalent of a cork up one’s bottom.

They say travel broadens the mind. My mind got broadened to sights I never want to see again.

One sight, on a particularly long bus trip between Delhi and Goa, was a loo stop. The toilets had long been filled to over flowing so everyone was having to overcome the effects of dysentery plugged by industrial strength Imodium whilst squatting over an openair concrete slab. There was very little space left on the concrete slab. It was decorated with dollops in various shades and consistency, each with a small flags of loo paper that fluttered in the wind and threatened to blow up and stick to your face.

The other recalled moment was on another bus trip through some featureless shrub in Rajestan, somewhere between Udaipur and the Thar desert. The bus broke down with a burst tyre. I went off into the flat shrub for a few moments alone.

The bus had emptied and a line of men, some travellers, some locals, stood along side watching me attempt to disappear in the flat terrain. By then it was dusk, and all plunged into darkness except for my bum. I hadn’t yet realised that sari’s or skirts were far better for discretion when outdoor weeing than trousers. Who knew that stone white English bottoms reflect the light of the moon like high vis jackets?

I was somewhat disgruntled by the attention of the line of men who were following my progress with unhealthy interest. They had even drawn my travelling partner into conversation.

I went further and further into the desert bemoaning the lack of cover, bush or even a ditch or something. Rather than look the other way discreetly I could see the men peering further, hands over eyes all but getting out the binoculars. By now I was a way away.

‘Are you done yet? The thin voice of my travelling companion travelled across the darkness to me.

‘No!’

‘It’s just that – can you be quick’

‘Why?’ I said annoyed.

‘Because its full of poisonous snakes’

‘WHAT’

Now I love animals. But only if they have four legs (and even then I’m not keen on rats tails) and don’t view me as lunch. I am no ophiologist. I didn’t know if the snakes referred to were a sun of saw-scaled adders, a quiver of spectacled cobras or a writh of pythons or boas. It turns out there are 42 species of snake in Rajestan, 6 of which are deadly.

The Roman Goddess Medusa had a head full of snakes. Me, I didn’t fancy my glowing moon bum being the target of disgruntled fanged ones. Ne’re have I moved so fast.

Then I became a young lawyer with tic-tac high heels and pencil skirts. Those were days of dark panelled loos in Chancery Lane, the scented finery of posh hotel loos; Amberley Castle, The Ritz, The Wardorf. Very nice loos.

When I went to work in Rome, I discovered to my delight that the loos in my office not only had showers, but- height of civilisation- bidets! It is fair to say that as I adjusted to the summer heat of Rome, I had constant wet hair down my back, either from a lunch time swim or a dash in to the showers, constantly spritzed with Izzy Mikake or Kenzo. I thought the days of dodgy loos were behind me.

But those heady days are in my distant past, along with rock hard pelvic floor- or other- muscles.

I recently had to visit my darling demented mother, which involves a ten hour round trip to West Wales.

I’ve done this before so thought I had planned for all jeopardies. At Reading I slunk off to the clean and empty loos to be found tucked at the back of platform nine. Nothing. I’d overdone the pre-emptive dehydration.

As the train pulled out of Reading station for the gallop to West Wales, which is as scenic- and remote- as Hogwarts, thirst gripped me. With hours to go, and shrivelling up with dehydration I could not resist when the trolley man came past touting his wares. Possessed by some primaeval survival instinct I bought a bottle of orange juice. Once it touched my lips, they latched on and all the will power in the world could not peel that bottle from my mouth until I had sucked down every last drop and felt its cooling nectar spread down.

Bad, bad idea.

I had condemned myself to a fate worse that death. It was only a matter of time. The minutes ticked by. First one leg coiled around the other. Then I plaited my legs together- to no avail. All I could think off was that I really needed a wee and couldn’t wait until I arrived in another country.

I walked down a swaying train, found the loo and pressed the button. The curved door to hell slid back.

Who knew what might be inside? Noxious gases from a long term resident? The toilet tissue thing empty? (always check first) Horrible puddles on the floor?

It was bad enough that the loo seat was up but imagine my horror when I looked down to see a toilet bowl sloshing with somewhat yellow fluid, and lots of massed tissues. With vain optimism I flushed. The water level rose precariously to the rim. Then sank back to half full, if any thing no slightly fuller.

But I was committed. It was hours before Llanelli. What’s a girl to do?

Friends- with far better pelvic floor muscles than mine- have spoken in wonderous terms of a she-wee. Wherefore art thou She-wee?

I really, really didn’t want to perch on that loo seat and have the benefit of a tsunami of other peoples wee down my leg if the train decided to lurch on its tracks. By now the train had picked up its speed and was doing a fair amount of tilting. I could tell by the agitated sloshing.

You know those wildlife programmes when giraffes splay their legs out so they can drink at watering holes? Well that was me. The only thing I could do was….splay, looking through my legs in the hope that should the train lurch and sent a tidal wave in my direction, I could spring forward to avoid a soaking. Unfortunately this meant that my head was roughly underneath the automatic drier so, intermittently I was blasted by hot hair. Motivated by the thought that if I got it wrong it was another 15 or so hours of strangers urine slowly drying on my legs before I could bathe and change, I speed weed. I now hold the world record for speedy giraffe weeing.

It's not just me though, recently GS didn’t get off so lightly.

My darling squeeze is fastidious. He goes nowhere without his supply of wet wipes. He is probably single handedly responsible for one of those fatberg things composed of toilet wipes that block up the Victorian sewage of London. (Sadly, Tiger aka dingle berry, the cat hasn’t adopted his fastidious manners.)

Recently, we were very fortunate to be invited to Verbier for a weeks skiing with old and new friends. We were spoilt rotten at an absolutely lovely chalet. However even in posh Verbier things can go awry.

One morning he had been gone for rather long time. There was muted yelp followed by the sound effects was having a sudden impulse shower.

Unfortunately it turned out that the loo brush was not a solidly engineered Swiss item, or one that clicked into place, but something which could, over time, during a long an arduous life, unravel. As it turns out somewhat explosively.

GS had reached for the loo brush to do some ceramic cleaning, when the whole thing sprung apart and let him liberally appointed with the vintage contents of the loo brush and its container.

I tried so hard not to laugh, but failed. As my father used to say., ‘there are serious illnesses, and other peoples’