What if I go to a restaurant where men and women have to use the same toilet and a man notices that I’ve been in the loo for longer than five seconds and then he tells all the other men and I end up alone.
What if drinking five Malibu and cranberry juices on our first date makes me need to go to the bathroom every 20 minutes and my future husband finds out sooner than glossy magazines would recommend that I am in fact a human being and not a poster that can talk.
What if we go for a walk in the countryside and I’m too scared to go to the loo in the bushes in case one of the ants has a camera phone and the whole thing goes viral.
What if I go for a job interview and I need to go to the toilet when I arrive because nerves and then the interviewer shakes my hand whilst it’s still damp and I wonder if I should send an email afterwards to clarify what happened.
What if I go to a rainforest in Australia and my husband tells me not to sit down on the only available toilet because there are ants all over the seat and I add ‘warnings about potential butt bites’ to the list of conversations nobody ever mentions that you’ll have once you’re married.
What if every time we come back from a holiday I feel the need to say how nice it is to be reunited with your own loo and my husband adds that to the list of conversations he wishes weren’t a part of being married.
What if people who are going to festivals are busy thinking about all the fun they’re going to have and the music they’re going to hear and the dancing they’re going to do and they don’t want to talk about how much time I would currently be dedicating to worrying about the toilet situation.
What if I go on a train and I think I’ve locked the toilet door but then all of a sudden it starts to open and there’s nothing I can do but sit there whilst I’m slowly revealed to the entire carriage.
What if they just leave me like that?
What if I go on a boat and there are no bathroom facilities whatsoever. Seriously, WHAT THEN.
What if I develop irritable bowel syndrome and when I eat pizza it makes me so ill that I end up lying in the foetal position on the bathroom floor, begging for forgiveness for whatever I did to deserve this. (Was it the floral leggings I wore in my youth? WAS IT?)
What if the story about the day I managed to master the art of hovering in order to use a chemical toilet isn’t a suitable response to the interview question “Tell me about the achievement that you’re most proud of.”
What if I go on a plane and I have to go to the toilet but the person in the seat at the end of my aisle is asleep and I’m too scared to wake them up so I try to climb over the top and I fall in their lap and they call the police and I get arrested whilst I’ve still got a full bladder.
What if I stay with a friend and their bathroom has a noisy fan light and every time I have to go to the loo in the night – which is loads because nothing makes you need to go like not wanting to go, am I right ladies? – I wake everybody up and they tell me to pack my things and get out of their house and out of their lives.
What if we all stopped worrying so much.
Would that help?