I love to travel. The further the better. The call of the wild! The more remote … bring it on. The feeling of total liberation and at peace with myself, sitting on a deserted beach miles away from anywhere. Bliss. Just me and my thoughts until I start wondering where the nearest loo is with its gleaming white seat.
So, as a traveller, I am a dismal failure. There is nothing more I would love to do than spend the night under the stars, providing I have an en suite bathroom a few feet away from my memory foam mattress.
Call it a phobia, call it what you will but I find abluting on a long hall flight difficult to say the least. That small, claustrophobic space which is invariably subject to a hideous amount of turbulence when I am in there.
Years ago we had a pit stop in Bahrain. So went in search of a loo only to find a hole in the tiles in which to pee, poo or miss completely like most people already seemed to have done. So I held it all in, not sure I could do that now, between Bahrain and Malé (Maldives), making a mad dash from the aircraft to wash room in my brand new flip-flops; only to find myself ankle-deep in water as both loos had backed up.
On a road trip from Jersey to The Algarve and caught short on the motorway, we stopped at a convenience, which turned out to be another hole in the ground and the wind seemed to be coming at me from all angles.
Then, by way of a grand finale to this little tale of woe, a dream I started having when was about 17, which has literally become my worst recurring nightmare. I am performing on the throne, in the privacy of my own bathroom when the curtain goes up to reveal an audience the size of the O2.
What a phobia. What a poo. What would Freud think?