Racing the turtle
After I finished my finals I took a trip up to meet some friends at gorgeous, blessed Sandwood Bay in the far north-west of Scotland. Left Edinburgh in my car at 4am. At about 7.30am, I felt the need in my bowels for my regular "sit down for a read of the Guardian". Actually a very, very strong, urgent need.

Well, mes amis, there aren't too many public loos or service stations in the far north of Scotland. I drove for what felt like hours, sweat beading on my forehead, my hands shaking, tortured sphincter tensed, cursing my lack of foresight in not bringing anything resembling loo roll with me. And I knew tings would be ... very messy ... if I nipped behind a bush.

Finally, I saw a wondrous vision, a lay-by with a loo. Barely able to walk and sobbing with gratitude I staggered to the door, anticipating the blessed relief I was about to experience.

Then I saw the sign on the door: "Closed till 9am".

Bit of a blow. My heart sank and my guts tensed as they began to lose the battle against the inevtable.

Mercifully a couple of minutes down the road was an old rural petrol station (shed and a pump) that was equipped with a Deliverance-esque kludgie. By grunting and pointing, I communicated to the bloke that I would like use his khazi.

Quite what he made of the banging, whizzing and laughing noises coming out of his easance I do not know but when I emerged I was 10 years younger and a stone lighter.

Moral: always carry tissues, a plastic bag and a hosepipe.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Fri 2 Sep 2005, 11:44, Reply)