A travel and style blog

Crapping in Cannes

A true story ... regrettably

Hello pals, how's tricks? I do hope all is well in your world and that your summer is passing a little slower than mine, which is slipping away in a blur. There's been a hint of the melancholy about me this last week, post holiday and all that. By day I've been accepting my fate (as an administrator), and by night I've been off to bed early with Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse, grieving over the unexpected loss of who I took to be the protagonist, Mrs Ramsay. If it's not one thing, it's another.

I have no doubt that your heart goes out to me, what with settling back into work after a break in the Côte d'Azur, but please, no cards or flowers.

At least this weeks post takes me back, momentarily, to the South of France, for one last visit, which incidentally is just what I paid, before boarding the train thankfully out of Cannes. Allow me to explain.

*You might find this post a bit disgusting, and for that I'm sorry*

How shall I word this? 
Once upon a time during a holiday to France, Oliver and I decided to head to Cannes. I'd felt off earlier that morning but not wanting to waste any of our time, I decided we should press ahead. We arrived at the train station and joined the hordes clambering to board the train. The train doors slid shut, with us still on the platform. Of all the people queuing for that train, only four people couldn't fit. (That last sentence to be read in the style of the old lady from Titanic)

Being two of the unfortunate four, we sat on the hot hot platform and waited for the next train. I sat quietly, using all my energy to create a through draft fanning myself with my straw hat. In spooky anticipation of foreboding doom Oliver suggested we skip Cannes if I felt unwell. I insisted we still go. I'd feel better when we got there and were among the rich people.

I perked up a bit as we wandered past the red carpet at the Palais des Festivals, but then dipped again as we walked in the heat along the sea front. I side eyed a beautiful dress in the window at Valentino but felt too weary to really care. A Mercedes Jeep pulled up outside a fancy hotel, I watched as the lady stepping out of it's air conditioning splendour positively beamed at the hotel staff greeting her. "I'd be bloody beaming stepping out of air conditioning" I thought as I sweated along the sea front and sipped my can of Fanta.

We found a cafe down a side street and sat in the shade to cool off and get some lunch. I felt dreadful. I popped to the ladies and ... for want of a better way of phrasing this ... realised that if I were to relax, only e.v.e.r so slightly, there would be anal pandemonium. In the only toilet, that had a hole in the door, that was directly next to the kitchen in a cafe in Cannes.

I died inside a little.

I did not however allow myself to relax and on returning to our table told Oliver, "we need to leave."

I remembered spotting a toilet on the sea front. One of those pods that you pay to enter but have complete privacy once inside. I don't know why I'd clocked it earlier, divine intervention perhaps. We made our way there.

I scrambled to put the 50 cent in the slot. It wouldn't work.

Regular public toilets were next to the pod. The non-private type. A toilet attendant broke off his conversation with a second attendant and beckoned us over. I was horrified at the thought of witnesses to what I knew was about to ensue. In the absence of another option I reluctantly walked over and asked if I could use the disabled toilet. 

"I don't understand, for your mother?" he asked.

"No" I replied, dying a little more inside and lying "For me, I feel sick" as I mimed vomiting. 

In that loo, on the sea front in Cannes I let me dignity die and nature takes its course. The last ounce of pride I had, dissolved as a planned incognito exit was thwarted by the two annoyingly helpful attendants who were there in a shot helping me open the toilet's heavy sliding door. What's a girl gotta do to have diarrhoea in peace? 

Our time in Cannes therein ended and we headed swiftly for the train back to Nice, all the while sat quietly and ashamedly next to the loo.

Now then, you've essentially just spent the last few minutes reading a lengthy version of 'I once had the shits' but I felt it important that you knew.


Because there's a story that lies behind every carefully orchestrated blog post or social media update. We know this, but we don't get to see it. I genuinely don't think it's good for us to be spending too much time looking at glossy versions of other peoples lives, and so I've brought you this post to serve as a reminder. A reminder that every time a 'perfect' photo shared on-line makes you feel a bit shitty (no pun intended) ... I once crapped in Cannes.

Now I know we don't want to read about everyones flaming bowel movements, but hopefully you get my point. Let's not spend too much time looking at other people's lives on-line.

Thanks so much for reading, I promise my next post won't be quite as gross.


Elaine x

*This post wasn't sponsored by Imodium Instants but it should've been*

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