I saw a young woman recently lugging empty crates into the back of her supermarket delivery van. It was parked some distance from the entrance of the block where I live. I asked her what the job was like. She said she had not been doing it long and it wasn’t too bad apart from all the lifting, with which she was struggling.
I’ve always thought the job must be a lot easier outside towns and cities, where parking tends to be tricky. “That’s true,” she said. “But the biggest problem I have, whatever route I’m on, is finding somewhere to go to the toilet. By the time I’ve found a toilet to use, I’ve got behind on my drops and I get into trouble.”
Trying to be helpful, I asked if she had thought about using a Shewee, which I had heard come in useful for some women at festivals and whatnot. She seemed quite interested and asked me exactly how they worked. I explained that the operational details of such devices were obviously outside my lived experience. She laughed and went on her way.
I rarely get supermarket deliveries, but, like most of us, have taken items from countless delivery people. Invariably, they seem stressed out, behind schedule and, I now realise, are quite possibly dying for a wee. How sad, when every delivery they make is to a property with at least one toilet.
Yesterday, something came for me mid-afternoon. I opened the door to allow a young chap to hand it over. As he turned to go, I said: “Excuse me, would you, erm, like to use my, er …” I hesitated, suddenly aware how absurd this was going to sound. He looked wary. “Toilet?” I blurted out. Now he looked alarmed. “No, you’re OK,” he said, hurrying away. I shut the door, feeling idiotic. I still think I’m on to something here, but I’m not sure how to take the idea any further without frightening the life out of any more delivery workers.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
