It was at primary school that going to the toilet became a big issue for me. I had never used one of the cubicles before, but the moment came when home time was too far away for me to wait. I had to go. I must have been breaking new ground in my year group because the moment I shut the door my classmates were clambering up to look down, and getting down to look up, over and under the partitions, to see what I was up to. I don’t know whether this happened at all schools, or, indeed, whether it happened to anyone but me at my school, but I inadvertently caused a sensation. Word went out in the playground: “Eggy’s having a poo!” Eggy was my nickname. Long story; let’s not go there.
More pupils streamed into the toilets to climb and crawl to a vantage point. Needless to say, I couldn’t go. I gave up and the crowd dispersed. I told the teacher what had happened – Mrs Dalman, I believe. She said the other children were very naughty and it wouldn’t do. Back to the toilet I went, escorted by Mrs Dalman who, to my dismay, stood guard outside the cubicle door while I struggled within. It was no good; again I couldn’t go. I told her I had, but I hadn’t.
