And your nearest toilet is...

I thought I’d give SatLav another whirl. So I’m on Oxford Street and I text ‘toilet’ to 80097. A few seconds later this helpful little message drops out of the ether into my Inbox.

Yr nearest toilets: Oxford Circus 0730 – 0000, Gt. Portland St 1000 – 1800. Leicester Sq & Covent Gdn toilets open 24hrs

All very impressive. Then after work, back in Walthamstow, I realise I haven’t thanked SatLav for their help, and not wishing to be rude I text ‘thanks!’ to the usual number. My phone beep-beeps, announcing the arrival of a reply.

Yr nearest toilets: Strand 1000 – 1800, Strand APC 24-hr. Leicester Sq & Covent Gdn toilets open 24hrs

How queer. SatLav must have mistaken my ‘thanks!’ for ‘toilet’ and according to them the nearest toilets are about 6 miles away. That doesn’t sound right, in fact I know it’s completely untrue, so I text back ‘you sure?’ Beep-beep.

Yr nearest toilets: Strand 1000 – 1800, Strand APC 24-hr. Leicester Sq & Covent Gdn toilets open 24hrs

SatLav are sticking to their guns. They’re adamant that my nearest toilets are in central London. That would mean having to take the Victoria Line to Kings Cross and changing onto the Northern Line to Leicester Square. Only a 35 minute journey, then. That’s not going to a problem at all if I desperately need the loo, is it? Not wanting to get into a pointless texting argument with a satellite, I decide not to text SatLav back. And in future, if I need to find a toilet I might do things the old fashioned way and ask a policeman.

Poo

Treacley black ones, slimy ones, scarily bloody ones, spluttering ones, gassy ones, embarrassingly noisy ones, painful ones, encouragingly solid ones, disappointingly runny ones, did-that-really-come-out-of-me ones, Malteseresque ones, explosive ones, stinky ones, just-made-it-to-the-toilet ones and good old fashioned ploppy ones. Yup, it’s fair to say I have produced a wide range of faeces this year, but so far I have not had a virtual poo. But if I do, worry not, I am prepared.

A letter of complaint

I just wanted to mention the noise between the two flats as I think the ceiling is obviously very thin but I have been woken up several times when you’re moving about. Sorry to mention this and I know it is probably something you’re not aware of but I thought I had to say something.

This is an extract from a handwritten note stuck to my girlfriend’s fridge. It’s from her neighbour who lives in the flat below. When I read the letter two things occurred to me. One (pernickety): my girlfriend’s neighbour’s hearing is far better than her use of punctuation. And two (panicky): if she feels she has to complain about the noise my girlfriend and her flatmate inadvertently make “moving about” what on God’s Earth must she make of the hullabaloo I make when I’m moving my bowels? Because she’s absolutely right in saying the ceiling is very thin. Sometimes when I’m sitting on the toilet in my girlfriend’s flat, I can hear the neighbour switch the light on in the bathroom below. Now this is the sound of a light being switched on. An ordinary household light switch; we’re not talking powering up the generators at Eddystone Lighthouse here. It is not what you would describe as a loud noise. As far as noises go, it’s quite unassuming. Probably a little louder than a mouse’s fart but not quite as loud as a stoat’s sneeze. Certainly no one was ever deafened by the sound of a light being switched on. It’s not the kind of noise that warrants you sticking your fingers in your ears. But if the sound of a light being switched on downstairs is clearly audible to me upstairs, then it stands to reason that whatever noise I make must also be heard downstairs. And believe me, when I use the toilet I make a lot more racket than a light switch. Imagine a Tiger Moth biplane crash-landing into the world’s largest Whoopee cushion phut-phut-phut-phut-parrrrrp-parrp- parrrrrp-parrp. So if my girlfriend’s neighbour is looking for someone to blame for the noise, then I hold my hands up. It’s a fair cop. I am public enemy number one (or should that be public enema number twos?) If she had perhaps been more honest, the neighbour’s note may have read something more like this…

I just wanted to mention the noise between the two flats as I think the ceiling is obviously very thin but I have been woken up several times by what I can only describe as something akin to a volcanic eruption. But given we live in Peckham, not Krakatoa, there must surely be some other explanation? You’re not trying to land a Tiger Moth biplane on the world’s largest Whoopee cushion up there, by any chance are you? No, that’s just crazy, forgive me, I haven’t been getting much sleep of late BECAUSE OF THE EVIL CACOPHONY OF BEELZEBUB’S RAMPAGING ARMY RISING FROM THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH. Sorry to mention this and I know it is probably something you’re not aware of but I thought I had to say something.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 2.1

Hawk-eyed pill watchers will notice I'm now taking azathioprine. This means every day I have 18 tablets rattling around inside my belly. I am the human maracas.

Wednesday 5th December:
6am Loose stool
10.25am Firmish stool
4.40pm Firmish stool, gassy


Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
4 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
Chica-chica-chica-chica-chica (that's the sound maracas make, I couldn't find an mp3.)

What's in a name?

There’s a bloke who drinks in a bar in Walthamstow called Mike, and to his friends he’s known as Funtime Mike. I think Funtime is a great prefix to be given; it’s the Ronseal of nicknames and tells you right up front exactly what to expect. It says this is a man who is going to be a bit of a laugh, a joker, a wisecracker, a raconteur, a wit and master of the art of barroom banter. He’ll probably know a few magic tricks involving matchsticks and beer mats too. Funtime Mike is going to be a riot, for sure. I have no reason to believe Mike was given his nickname ironically, as other nicknames in the bar are Big Paul, who is big (he’s also known as Roofer Paul, which is what he does), there’s Big Mo and Big Chris, they’re both big as well, there’s Drunk Dave, who is always drunk and there’s a teacher called Stephen that everyone calls Harry, because he wears little round glasses and has a scar on his forehead. Nicknames in The Stow (that’s Walthamstow’s nickname) tend to be quite unimaginative. Even Walthamstow’s most famous sons, East 17, named themselves after the postcode. It’s very much a literal ‘say what you see’ thing. “Paul’s a big lad, I know, let’s call him Big Paul.” So it came as a bit of shock to discover that I was known in the area as The Pervert. This, I learnt, is what the locals began calling me because when I first went in the pubs in Walthamstow I would sit on my own and scribble things in my notepad. And that in their eyes made me The Pervert. Not The Scribbler, The Jotter or even Padman. No, to all and sundry I was The Pervert. Talk about unfair. Mike gets Funtime on account of him being a fun guy and I get The Pervert on account of what, that I occasionally write things down in a pad? You figure it out, because I can’t. Anyway, what has all this got to do with ulcerative colitis? Well, there’s another bloke I know in Walthamstow called Mouse (don’t ask), and he phoned yesterday to tell me he’s just been diagnosed with UC. And aside from the good people that leave comments on my blog from time to time, Mouse is the only living, breathing, real person I actually, actually know with ulcerative colitis. So it now looks like I’ve got a partner. Pervert and Mouse. Got a kind of Batman and Robin ring to it, don’t you think?

Small blessings

Having a rough time at the moment?

In a flare-up?

Diarrhoea?

Up and down to the toilet constantly?

6, 7, 8, 9 times a day?

Stools look like redcurrant jam?

Runnier than that?

Just blood?

Lots and lots of blood?

Well this may not be much consolation, but count yourself lucky.

You could be a gerbil.

A gerbil with ulcerative colitis.

Gerbils don’t have flushing toilets.

They’ve got walk-in lavatories that are stuffed floor to ceiling with shredded paper.

Not Andrex, newspaper.

Once inside they defecate anywhere.

Now imagine if you had to tunnel your way into a small room filled with poo-soaked newspaper every time you needed to answer the call of nature.

Euch, indeed.

Let’s face it, after a couple of trips it’s not going to be pleasant.

After a few days you’ll be wishing your nose would drop off.

On the up side, with all that newspaper lying about there’s always something to read.

It’ll be alright on the night

I’m on Great Castle Street just round the corner from Oxford Circus and I find myself in the rather unusual position of pretending that I urgently need to find a toilet. Having spent much of the year actually needing to find toilets urgently, it’s a role I think I can just about pull off. So there I am, method acting in central London with Gielgudian aplomb. I’m wringing my hands dramatically, biting my fist, criss-crossing my legs, hoppety-hopping from one end of the street to the other like a daddy longlegs. Hurrying office workers hunch further over their steaming coffee cups to avoid eye contact. A couple of secretaries link arms and cross to the other side of the road. A crowd of concerned faces appear alongside the shiny Christmas baubles in the window of Café Lido. Perhaps my performance is erring more towards ‘lunatic Macbeth’ than ‘man looking for loo’. Nonetheless I remain in character and unsheathe my mobile phone in theatrical fashion. Exercising poise and technique rarely seen in British acting, I deftly text ‘toilet’ to 80097. I fall still and wait. Beep-beep. Hark, a reply.

Sorry, we cannot locate your current position. You have not been charged for this reply.

That wasn’t in the script. I reread the message and give the screen a withering Oliver Hardy look. This new toilet locating service I’m trying out, or SatLav as it has been dubbed, is supposed to locate the texter and text back directions to the nearest public toilet anywhere in Westminster. But in this instance it appears they can’t. Looks like they're having teething troubles. So it’s fortunate that today is just a dress rehearsal and I’m only pretending that I desperately need the loo. Hopefully by the time I come to use SatLav for real, they’ll have got their act together.