French Toilets

When you need to go, you need to go. Usually I am not too fussy about where I urinate - oh come on we have all been desperate for a wee on a night out and had to use an alleyway. Festival toilets don't even phase me, with their poo smeared walls and giant well of pee underneath. But I have to say when I stopped at a motorway toilet in France on the way to a wolf sanctuary I was devastated by the situation.

I opened the door to the stone house and chose a metal door to enter expecting to see the usual porcelain seat, when low and behold there was simply a ditch in the floor. So what they claimed to be a toilet was nothing more than a shack with a hole.

This created a problem, how to squat in a maxi dress while gripping on to my flip flops with my toes all the while trying to avoid urinating on myself. It was a feat let me tell you. I managed to hitch my dress over my head and balance vicariously over the hole, my flip flop only slipping once, which was enough for splash back.

But the horror did not end there. No toilet roll.

Luckily my mum was at hand with a packet of tissues I now regretted berating her for. To the rescue she came like a Knight in shining armour. Except these tissues were Albus oiled. So now I am stuck with a pissy foot and a burning foof.

Thanks France!

I mean why, in this day and age have you still got holes for toilets? Sort it out for the love of god.