After three drive-bys I enter the public toilets behind the tourist information centre. Underneath several layers of grime and graffiti is a not-unattractive 1930s deco interior.
Someone – presumably female – has scrawled messages about smear tests and Jade Goody on the back of the toilet door, over the top of the less time sensitive ‘Chez loves Redders 4eva’. Somebody called Dave woz ere in 08. In the ladies’ toilet.
I successfully avoid touching anything except the obligatory door handle and indecisively loiter by the soap-washer-dryer machine in the wall contemplating cleanliness. It surprises me by propelling a blob of green liquid soap, in the one split second I allow my upturned hand to enter the hole in the wall. Clever. No choice in the matter now, as I succumb to the air blower which blasts the warm breath of a thousand chavs into my clean hands.