On portaloos
Today I went back to work.
Besides the torture of having to get up at a much earlier time that should even be legal, it meant roughly seven hours of briefings, debriefings and other perfectly trivial meetings, presided by a well meaning but incredibly tedious headmistress. We were well into the fourth hour - no tea, no biscuit, no loo break, no passing notes around - when, in the middle of mentally composing my own will, I suddenly remembered the bourdaloues. Eighteenth-century portable china piss-pots for elegant ladies, who would, supposedly, hide them under their skirts on long coach journeys. They were named for the Abbé Bourdaloue, who preached inordinately long sermons - extreme tests of human endurance. I used to own one, or at least I used to believe, aged 6 or so that the one living under my bed at my grandmother's house was mine.

I wonder if it's still there. I'll keep you posted.