Picture if you will a fragrant pine forest abutting the sandy beach of La Porge Ocean on Bordeaux’s Atlantic coast.  We Pagans sit at the picnic table feasting on cheese, ham, baguette and grapes, all except Star II who is concentrating on increasing his pinecone collection. Husband suggests the discreet jettisoning of them at some point but I can visualize them in the grate at home.

The surrounding French sit, probably for hours, at beautifully laid tables with their well-behaved immaculate children. Their conversation regarding art and politics is abruptly interrupted by the bellowing voice of Star II: “Mum I need a poo!”   The French are aghast as we appear to behave like our namesakes, bolting our food and deciding who will take him and inquiring as to the whereabouts of the wipes.

At the risk of sounding like my Father, that’s why we won the war,  “No time for lengthy lunches, eat on the hoof old boy – chocks away!”  And indeed why we have more stress-induced heart attacks and ulcers than our laid-back cousins.  Anyway I digress, back to poo, if only it were ‘Winnie’.

I scan the area; my eyes come to rest upon a square, roofed building of slatted wood construction - ‘La toilette’.  Loo, bog, even bathroom are not most romantic or luxurious sounding names. But salle de bain and toilette conjure up an altogether more powder-puff scented experience. We all know the reality of Les toilettes.  My heart sinks.

This will be a new venture for Star II. The lucky chap has ‘been’ in en-suites around the globe and even the camp site facilities are bearable when accompanied by Clarins. This however had a different perfume one could almost taste at about 200mtrs.  We round the corner and I take the last breath of fresh air.

“What do I do?” he innocently asks.

“Well,” my voice chokes, "I hold you, you put one foot there and there and you go, QUICKLY!”

“Ok”

“Don’t get your shorts wet, don’t touch ANYTHING.”  Sounding slightly hysterical now and stifling a retch.  We assume the position. I am faced with a white-tiled wall encrusted with flies.  I hold Star II and my breath, beating Shelley Winters in the ‘Poseidon Adventure’ by some considerable way.

“Do try and hurry my love.”

He’s taking his time chatting away about pinecones. I’m bent double, slowly turning purple and perspiring slightly, also aware that my sunglasses are slowly, but surely, sliding down my nose.

There will be no retrieval should they fall. … Closer and closer to the end of my nose with no hope of pushing them back …. closer and closer still.  At the very least I’ll have to take a breath soon … still sliding . … when …..

“Finished Mum!”

“Thank God! I mean, good boy.“

We’re out of there!