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Toilets

I often dream of toilets. Usually they are very public and underground. Last night’s dream was no exception, though this time there were two. With the first it was already occupied. I tried the door but there was no answer. Eventually, a small bustly kind of woman came out looking a little ashamed. There’s a problem, she said. Can you see about it? I went inside. There was a large, very pink, de-shelled langoustine on the ground by the loo. Had she deposited it there from inside of her? I put a cloth over it. She re-entered. Have you contacted management about it? she asked. Then I was in Switzerland and crossing a bridge whose path lead directly into a cafĂ© that appeared to be closed. (There was a a large piece of paper on the ground with the hand-written phrase ‘there is no coffee being served’ on it.) A couple of men sat at a cloth-covered table. I asked if there was a ladies. One of them pointed at a curtain over which was a little wooden sign that I thought was ‘women’ in Swiss. I pulled aside the curtain and found a tiny toilet with sink and bowl. I bent my head to enter. You can’t fit in there, another of the men said. I proceeded into the room and woke up.

She answered. It took me by surprise. We’ve just come back from a rainy walk, she said. I could hear them in the background, their tiny voices echoing around the small house. She tells me his favourite word is biscuit.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.