X Marks the Spot

Anna, my wife, had been wanting one for ages; ever since we moved to France. Sports car? Motorhome? Botox? Helipad? I hear you ask. Yes, she has asked for all these things at some point (except the helipad), but the thing her heart desired the most was an outside toilet. Well, call me Mr Dream-Maker, but I wanted to do this special thing for her.

It's easy for us fellas, when we're in the garden and that little tingly sensation comes a-knocking; like Superman stepping into his phone booth, we sidestep behind the nearest rose bush and relieve ourselves (I'm talking 'number 1s' here, not 'number 2s'...that would be gross).

But when the ladies are poolside, having imbibed in one too many piña coladas and the call of nature comes a-calling, they have to traipse across the garden...into the house...up the stairs and bingo bongo. Leaving a trail of grass and wet footprints across the kitchen floor (which can be a deathtrap for me, in my non-grip slippers; many a time I have entered the kitchen after Anna has mopped and gone into an enforced splits). 

The plan was to construct the convenience in an outhouse, we use as a laundry. And I'm not talking about a snazzy tiled wet room affair, with mood lighting and heated seat. No, this was going to reflect the agricultural nature of our surroundings, almost like a cattle stall with loo. There was already a sink in it, I use to clean my paint brushes, so that saved a job. 

After a couple of preliminary designs on the back of a fag packet (Norman Foster had a similar approach when designing the Gherkin), construction was ready to start...

Anna and I had wandered around the garden lifting up drain covers, looking at the comings and goings of the pipes and forming a mental picture of our underground system. Anna marked the spot where the new pipe would join old and a variety of digging implements readied. If your soil is like ours, we have an inch of earth and then granite boulders ranging from the size of a haggis to watermelon, so progress was slow, but the new rockery was going to be enormous.

As I descended into the ground I started to think we had made an error in our calculations, as there was nothing in the hole, except me and an never ending supply of granite boulders. 

After recalculation, a new site was decided upon and a second hole dug. Our garden resembled The Great Escape; Tom had been put on hold, Dick was in progress and we hoped Harry wouldn't be needed. 

Not wanting to put my spade through any existing pipes, progress was slow. There were piles of mud all over the place, I half expected Tony Robinson and the Time Team Team to pop up and ask if they could join in. If I came across anything of interest, I would halt 'the dig', reach for my precision paint scraper, and slowly, slowly expose what was... another lump of granite. Sadly, no Saxon swords or Roman earthenware was unearthed, but give up I did not and eventually after one mighty thrust of my spade a load of gravel collapsed into the hole...this was a good sign. Like one of the moles that inhabit our front lawn, I scroffled about, tunnelled sideways and...thank the Lord, the grey side of a soil pipe started to appear. 

It was up there with witnessing the birth of my children. I was quite emotional and had to have a moment. I called Anna over to have a look and we both oohed and aahed at the sight.

As I sit here, recording the events, I am in a considerable amount of discomfort; I have twanged something in my lumbar region...I blame that hole and Anna for her fancy-schmancy notions about al fresco toileting.

After my slow progress, we have decided to hire a little digger (like the ones they all use on Château DIY/Help! We Bought a Village), to dig the trench needed to lay the connection pipe. 

Phase two will be constructing the 'cubicle'. Anna has already bought an ornate wardrobe door from Emmaüs, so it will be very magical; like entering Narnia through the wardrobe, when she needs to make a deposit. I will keep you informed of further movements.