Comfort Stop

Dear Mum,

I recently interrupted a five hour car journey to stop at a service station. It was here that I experienced Heston Blumenthal’s redesigned Little Chef at Popham.

In actual fact, I passed through the restaurant in aid of a toilet break due to several pre-journey cups of tea.  

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no roadside facility is going to offer a memorably pleasant toilet stop.

But this was certainly memorable.

It was all pretty clean and had clearly been refurbished complete with mock cloudy-sky ceiling tiles. As I queued I gazed amusedly up at these tiles before being awoken from my trance to ask my companion, “was that a sheep?”

Yes it was. Various farmyard animals and birdsong were played on a constant loop.

The sound of sheep bleating does not inspire my bladder to perform and these sounds are not what I understand the term “nature calls” to mean. They instead reminded me of my childhood, when a quick nip behind a bush during a family walk was acceptable but the sense of mortification and panic was no less prominent.

Upon venturing into a cubicle at the Little Chef a bird apparently flying over my head gave me stage fright. I half anticipated a voice to say “Get off my land!” causing me to flee from the toilets altogether.

Whilst this experience defied my idea of a comfort break, as I felt distinctly uncomfortable, it was reassuring that the toilet was new and clean.

During my student years, however, friends and I experienced some nauseating toilets.

On one such occasion Lana and I, plus two inebriated housemates, ventured into a fast-food restaurant at 2am to satisfy our housemates’ yells of “We need chicken!” Lana ventured into the depths of the seedy vicinity in need of the toilet. When she re-appeared she walked purposefully toward us, ashen faced.

“I think it would’ve been more hygienic if I’d wet myself.”

The mind boggles.

I think perhaps the worst aspect of public-toilet going, however, is the awkwardness. Everyone is there to accomplish something that we all have in common and is only natural, yet it is still embarrassing and not open to much discussion.

I can only imagine for men that it must provide some dire situations. For the ladies, and particularly English ones, it is the etiquette of queuing that causes controversy and unease.

Despite being in close circumstances, one can never find the correct words. One day, I learned that it is best to simply keep schtum.

On said day I sauntered into a cubicle, retreated after glimpsing that which festered in the toilet bowl and so continued to another cubicle.

Thirty seconds later, when washing my hands, I witnessed a lady repeat the exact same action; enter, recoil, exit.

I thought it would be a comfort to her that I remark “I did that.” It was her second recoil that made me realise the implication of my remark. S**t.