Where All The Lights are Bright

Y'know what I'm missing? Pollution. That definite sense of my lungs not being as pure and clean as they should feel. Stepping out of my building in the morning not to faint natural scents and pollen but of petrol fumes and bin overspills from the back garden.

And police sirens at night. Trying to sleep past 12am on a Friday but never getting the total serenity I need for peaceful slumber. Voices outside; movements in the building; slammed doors. Friday's "good time" feeling goes on from dusk to dawn but I snooze and I lose. Except here in this city with its endless pulls and possibilities, nothing really feels like a loss.

And the suspicion that these pulls and possibilities are everywhere - I have never quite seen everything. This village I type this from, I have explored every street, with each rural mystery unfolded, every potential Instagram moment captured and uploaded. In the city I know there's much more to every corner; more bars to go to, more art galleries to visit and more people to meet with better stories, bigger egos and brighter futures.

And I miss the acceptable laziness that comes with everything you need being right on your doorstep. Why take buses when you can take paces? I like to roll out of bed knowing that only metres outside the door there's my next meal, my next outfit or a pint with my name on it.

And the comfortable knowledge of just being an anonymous face amongst relentless bustle. Walking around with that spot that won't clear up or wearing leggings that give everything away. Not fearing that you'll bump into the hot guy from that tutorial or your friend with the skin that never ceases to glow like the street lamps of Dumbarton Road. A stranger might catch your eye and you may being embarrassed by the state they've seen you in but then, they're already gone. You won't see them again. You never do.

And the feeling of being part of something that is much bigger than you are. The unease you feel with being at one with a gentleman's armpit on the subway on a Saturday morning. Elbows pushed into your ribs and newspapers pushed under your nose on public transport, your scruffy boots amongst the endless shiny shoes. Confidence that if you were to mouth such blasphemies as "after you, I'm not in a rush!" then god knows your footsteps must have less value in them, amongst the bumping bones and silent "sorry"s.

I miss a city that reels me in and tries to spit me back out. I miss being startled by the noises, intrigued by the people, dazzled by the lights - childishly bewildered, forever enthralled. I am, after all, just a country girl who is in way over her head.

Nightclub Toilets and You

“Babe – babe! You need to look at me. Seriously, listen to what I’m gonna say, right now. Are you listening? Right, so you are incredible, like you are absolutely amazing, I am AMAZED by you. Any boy would be SO fucking LUCKY to have you – and your tits! Look at them! They’re fucking fantastic! You are so strong and sassy and smart so honestly FUCK HIM!!”

Although these words may be so full of sincere love and wonder that you'd assume they came from a long time companion, it turns out there's another place you're just as likely to hear them. Impassioned outbursts like these can surely only be heard in the girls' toilets of night clubs.

It might not be glamorous, but it is the unquestionable truth; if the dance floor is the battle then the toilets are the trenches, and these trenches are literally havens of shared lipstick, sweetness and affection. Whether you've texted some tiddly sweet nothings to your ex, have your mate's vomit in your hair or have just decided that your bum doesn't look as peachy as you thought in that dress, you can guarantee that there's a stranger in there who will just about trip over in their heels with willingness to tell you how clever, beautiful and strong you are.

My own experiences definitely back this up. Whilst clubbing doesn't do much for a pensioner trapped in a youthful body like me, I've spent enough time in the past to know that club toilets for girls are generally sanctuaries, where I will most likely receive some sympathy if I've hit a slump or at the very least, a compliment on my outfit. Apparently this particular kindness holds no language barrier, either; having had a bit of a guy-related wobbler, I teetered my way into the toilets of a German club a few years ago, where two German girls seemed to switch into action immediately and fetched me tissues to clear up my botched eyeliner and gave me much needed hugs. All I could do was smile gratefully and wish my German was good enough to thank them properly.

I researched the topic a little further too, asking others for their own experiences. A crowd sourcing Facebook status revealed that for girls, simply going to the loo on a night out is far from just functional:

"Once my friend was sick in a cup so I had to carry the cup to the toilets to flush it away. When I got to the toilets to empty it LOADS of girls asked what had happened and started offering me perfume and stuff so I didn't smell like the sick that wasn't my own. That was nice."

"My friends and I have had the most over-blown but truly inspiring chats with strangers in nightclub toilets. Everyone hugs and tells the others how sassy and beautiful and independent they are... It's hilarious in hindsight!"

"I got emotional-drunk one night last year at a club and started my whole "was i not good enough for him?" spiel to a mate about my ex (a few days after we ended things). This girl overheard and started giving a really slurred inspirational speech about how i deserve better than that and how beautiful i was and how if anything, he didn't deserve me. Then she told me about her abusive boyfriend and how although he beats her up and verbally abuses her, she loved him and couldn't imagine being away from him. At this point, nearly the entirety of the ladies' loos had gathered around us spitting their wisdom towards the both of us; some girls even gave her phone numbers to abuse hotlines. I have honestly never met a nicer bunch of self appointed therapists."

Although of course, it's not all sharing lipstick and heartfelt exchanges. Sometimes real, uh, shit goes down.

"At Reading fest 2013 in the arena toilets, a very drunk girl who obviously hadn't planned to use the loo, didn't find it acceptable when I said to her I had used all the toilet roll I brought with me after she asked if I had any spare. she then proceeded to punch me in the face"

But generally speaking, it is widely accepted that the ladies’ toilets are essentially temples so brimming with sisterly unity that you can hear Destiny’s Child’s “Girl” from as many as ten whole miles away. However, far less is known about what goes on in the guy's toilets. Whether they are the homes of blossoming bromances or simply an in-and-out experience, I had to find out by asking the masses.

"I ran in to Kyle from The View in the toilets in Box. He was play-fighting with some guy who insisted that he take £20 from him 'for the quality fuckin' music yous make, man'. Weirdest toilet experience I've got. Otherwise it's generally a pretty in and out, purely functional thing. Swordfighting is not a thing."

"I tend to just literally do my business and head off. Never had a deep chat in the toilets."

"Cathouse. Roughly 3-4 years ago. Stood at the urinal, it's one of those long trough-like ones rather than the individual ones and at the corner there's a convenient wee ledge at a safe height to stick your pint on while you have a slash. I approach the urinal and set my pint on this ledge before unzipping. Guy next to me is there already, turns round to me and tells me my pint is 'asking for it'. I laugh accordingly at his joke. He leans back, aims up the way and lands a good stream right into my pint. Never have I been more furious in a public bathroom."  (hahaha)

Business as usual, apparently - quite the opposite to what I've experienced. As somebody who has grown so accustomed to wine-induced warmth, this is kind of baffling to me. How do you guys do it? Don't you wanna go tell that dude that his hair's pretty awesome and you wanna know how he got it that good? Where do you go to cry when you get inevitably upset after too many Jagerbombs?!

Well, those are certainly mysteries. Yet what isn't mysterious at all is that whilst I personally don't thrive in a clubbing environment, sisterhood apparently does. I am totally, wholeheartedly into that. Recalling my own experiences and reading similar accounts from others puts a smile on my most sullen of faces. I only wish more of those unexpected words of compassion and encouragement were seen in moments of sobriety. In a way, it's a little sad that it takes a few glasses of wine to be so openly supportive and loving - for no other reason than because it's just actually really fucking nice to be nice. Plus, no matter how wasted I've been, I've never yet forget being complimented on my lipstick choice, and sometimes you need memories like those to smile and feel reminded that maybe you're alright, after all.