Down the toilet

A secretary supporting us in the office a while back took it upon himself to let us all know, each morning, that the day we were embarking upon had been given a special designation. This, I suspect, was his way of brightening our day with a moment of levity as we set about dealing with the usual succession of design issues, project delays and cost overruns. It meant that the first thing we’d see on our screens as we logged in was a message imploring us to smile because ‘today is national moustache day’ or urging us to endorse ‘international flat feet awareness day’. After being encouraged to provide twenty-four hours of moral support to the suffers of haemorrhoids, transgender single parents or the collection of fancy teapots I was forced, despite being an accommodating sort of chap, to call a halt to his daily well-meaning but unsettling nonsense. There are some things that I simply can’t take before coffee and I have an aversion to half-arsed good causes.

Those early-morning entreaties are history now but this week the memories were brought into sharp focus when I read that 19 November had been designated ‘World Toilet Day’ and found that its campaign slogan was ‘We can’t wait’. My initial reaction was to dismiss it as both unimportant and awkwardly pitched as my usual reaction to any ‘commemorative’ day is less than sympathetic, advocating as it usually does yet another example of questionable self-indulgence or unhealthy interest in an obscure subject. This month has already delivered us ‘button day’, ‘Origami day’ and, would you believe, ‘sandwich day’. But this one intrigued me and I found myself wondering who had thought it up and if there might even be a World Toilet Day Committee.

Well, it turns out that someone did think it up and there is – more or less – a committee. In 2001 someone called Jack Sim founded the World Toilet Organisation [WTO] through the World Toilet Summit. Now here is guy with an enthusiasm for restrooms, sanitation, the sustainable disposal of waste and all manner of things smelly that transcends the boundaries of normal curiosity. The WTO now has its own college – yes, it is called the World Toilet College but it isn’t about learning how to sit on the throne. It convenes an annual summit and has set in motion a campaign that is now supported internationally. The overriding issue, I read this week, remains the ubiquitous problem of open defecation. That didn’t come as news to someone who has travelled a fair bit in the third world and is on record as ranting about India developing a space program while almost half its population still sh*ts in the woods. What was surprising, though, was learning of other equally serious concerns that flow from it, so to speak.

Something like 2.5 billion people worldwide don’t have access to what we think of as a toilet and nearly half just defecate in the open. We ‘civilised’ people in the west tend not to think or, worse, speak about toilets and sanitation – aside, that is, from some services engineers I have worked with who took on a dreamy look as they discussed the intricacy of sewerage design. The implications for health, however, are obvious. In addition, there is also a correlation to be drawn between a lack of sanitation, failing education and violence towards women. I was blissfully unaware that menstruating girls in some parts of Africa avoided school where no facilities existed and that there were increased levels of violence and intimidation towards women in India where they had to find a place to defecate after dark. This is all a very long and frightening distance from the extensive range of novelty toilet seats you can buy on Amazon.

It seems to me that anything that raises the profile of this issue – even dedicating a day to the toilet – has to be worthwhile. So, instead of casting a wry smile at World Toilet Day I suggest you take a look at what they say at UN-Water. A huge improvement can be achieved with little effort; toilets that pay you to use them, biodegradable ‘Peepoo’ bags, composting toilets and – something in which I take a big interest – biogas generation can provide multiple environmental and social benefits where the will exists.

I wonder how much money has been spent this week on space in my newspaper, the colour supplement, pop-ups on web pages and unsolicited junk mail that encourages us to go out and get the latest smart phone. It’s working in Africa, where uptake is phenomenal*; in India, more people own a mobile phone than own a toilet. After all, the capability of apps in all manner of tasks just keeps increasing and there will soon be nothing your phone can’t do. Except, that is, to wipe your bum.

*John Evans’ article in TechCrunch can be found here.

Dust in the attic; full of memories

Arthur William Eldridge: 'Bill' or 'Will' in a photo taken in 1914 just prior to mobilisation
Arthur William Eldridge: ‘Bill’ or ‘Will’ in a photo taken in 1914 just prior to mobilisation

At last; I’ve thrown out the oar. It’s been gathering dust and cobwebs in the shed ever since we moved here and, before that, it languished in the loft of the coach-house. I forget why I carried it out of a party at Hampton Wick as a cocky and irrepressible youth and have even less idea of how such a useless object – I’ve done enough boating to know you need two oars unless you’re a gondolier – took up space for so many years. I can’t remember now whose party it was so there’s no possibility of returning it but I wondered, just for a moment before I hurled it into the skip at the recycling centre, if someone, somewhere is hanging on to the other one in the hope of one day finding it’s partner at the back of their shed.

When I look back on 2014 I’ll think about the oar. I won’t think about the floor we relaid, the plasterboard we fitted in the loft room or the new partition we built and I’ve already expunged recollections of the painting and decorating. No, what I’ll remember in the year we fixed, closed and prepared to sell our farmhouse and move to a less encumbered life are the memories that the exercise evoked. The musty collection of boxes, old cupboards and dust-sheeted piles in the attic and those big storage boxes that we never open have been brushed-off, sorted and their contents assessed for moving, selling, recycling or, like the oar, dumping. Today I have busy accounts on e-bay and Gumtree; I know the local charity driver and enjoy first-name banter with the bloke at the Council dump. It’s been a long year.

This still incomplete exercise has taken me out of circulation for months at a time and it has manifested itself in a reverie of nostalgia that has frequently been overwhelming. The dust has been blown off old photos of the family and adventures abroad, model trains, a colour TV, school report cards, tape decks, a turntable, empty suitcases, an uncle’s stamp collection, parents albums, yellowing letters from colleagues to a twenty-something exile in the middle east, a baby chair, carpets, clothes racks, a darkroom kit. Under dust sheets my grandmother’s sideboard, my mother’s secret hoard of postcards from her boys, my old Etienne Aigner briefcase, Ikea’s coat stand and my grandfather’s ‘diddybox’, still holding a cache from the first world war that includes his new testament and a couple of bullets, are among the surprises. We’ve been hoarding junk with little value but a wealth of memories.

Arthur William Eldridge: probably just before the Great War - 1913 0r 1914
Arthur William Eldridge: probably just before the Great War – 1913 0r 1914


In the years we’ve been here we’ve made some good friends and lost touch with others; we’ve seen parents leave us, children born and youngsters grow to start their own families; we’ve agonised through divorces and danced at weddings. Memories of occasions down the years materialised as bits and pieces were turned over in the attic and as we sifted through curling photos younger versions of people we know smiled at us from long-forgotten dinner parties and lunches in the garden.

It’s come as something of a surprise to me that so much has accrued so going through this process has been cathartic and, to some extent, energising. It’s felt good to shed detritus that, in some cases, hasn’t seen the light of day for decades but it poses a difficult question – should one keep something just because of it’s association, because of the memories? Throwing out some junk this year made me feel I was committing wanton acts of disloyalty but how much do you keep, how long do you keep it and how much is enough to preserve a memory?

Havre theatre programme



Demob account

The first world war was the biggest event in my grandfather’s life. Not the most important – he survived Ypres and came home to marry and have three children – but it was something he wouldn’t forget. I can understand why some papers and a few small keepsakes were put into a box and allowed to gather dust under his stairs for seventy years. I don’t think he looked at it unless he was pestered by us grandchildren. Now that dusty box is mine and it’s been a joy – and a little sad – to recall my memories of him as his ‘diddybox’ reaches its centenary.

Today is Armistice Day and marks a hundred years since the start of the great war. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like to be ‘called up’ and shipped off to war. Rupert Brooke’s poem, written in 1915, captures something of that.

The soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a
foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.