There is no such thing as the Poo Fairy

The single track Midland Railway branch, constructed in 1871 to connect Mansfield to Rolleston Junction via Southwell, was built with coal traffic in mind and it closed completely in 1964. It now performs another useful function as the Southwell Trail, a walking, horse riding and cycling amenity, leading inevitably to plenty of doggie-dos and manure, especially near the access points. In more recent times, dog owners have been shamed into picking up the little steamers in those small plastic sacks, thus giving a whole new meaning to the term, “doggie bag.”

Instead of holding onto them until a suitable receptacle is reached, however, some owners seem to prefer to litter the path with black, pink and blue parcels, often hung like Christmas decorations on adjacent bushes and trees and prompting an indignant local with a sense of humour to put up notices to remind offending dog owners that, “There is no such thing as the Poo Fairy.”  

I have found that one of the unfortunate effects of the ageing process is the requirement to visit the facilities with greater frequency than in times past. One of my early morning cocktail of little white pills is apparently designed to remove excess fluid from my system. It usually springs into action when I’m half-way round the supermarket or at the wheel of my car, either in a traffic jam or on a motorway just after we have passed a service station.

Up until two years ago, the last time I’d had a little accident was whilst sitting cross-kneed on the polished wooden floor in the hall at my infant school, in 1954. “Not me,” I claimed insistently to all those around me, as the pool, in which I was the only island, gradually enlarged, as if emanating from some underground spring. “Not Me.”

Nearly six decades later, I discovered the hard way that public toilets in Stockholm are more difficult to locate than I had hoped. I even made it back to the hotel but could not see the sign I expected to find on any of the doors in the reception area. I dived into the lift, where muscle fatigue finally got the better of me and I embarrassed myself, thankfully privately, before covering the evidence with my day-pack and scuttling into the hotel room and somewhat belatedly completing the job.

I recently travelled to Edinburgh to take advantage of my birthday present to myself, a first class day return to the Scottish capital. I was very well fed and watered by the time I got to Waverley station, so first stop the loo. It must have suddenly come over me when I stood up. That can happen. “30p? You must be joking?” Off I rushed down Princes Street in search of quality at a more reasonable price. I found just the place in John Lewis’s, always reliable and “never knowingly undersold,” whatever that means.

On my way back from Scotland, I noticed that all my pocket money for the day was still intact and I was being looked after every bit as well as I had been on the way there. After downing complimentary tea, coffee, sparkling water and a can of Stella Artois, I needed the odd trip or two to the loo. When pointing Percy at porcelain on a train, who can claim they have never wafted a spray across the smallest room after a sudden jolt over the points, heavy braking for an unexpected signal check or a relatively cavalier switch by the driver onto the slow line? Surely, we have not always left the facilities exactly as we might have wished to find them, as a result?  

I may not have spent any money while I was north of the border, I mused, as I carefully kept my balance with my feet firmly apart, but at least I’d made a substantial deposit at John Lewis’s.