I had been visiting my boyfriend in London for the weekend. He was a hard-up student and I was still at sixth-form, but beer was pretty cheap in 2000, so we had been out for a few pints. Now we were racing to St Pancras so I could get the last train home to Derby.
I legged it through the station and made it on to the train with seconds to spare. No time for the loo, but I’d relieve myself on the train. Or so I thought.
The toilet at the end of my carriage was out of order. So was the next one along. With the beer sloshing around and my bladder close to bursting, I lurched down the train and bumped into the ticket inspector. He broke the bad news: all the toilets were out of order.
I sat back down and crossed my legs. The minutes crawled by. The fast train from London to Derby takes about an hour and a half, and I could have hung on that long. The only problem was, this was the slow train.
I glimpsed the stations as we passed: Luton, Bedford, Wellingborough. Ninety minutes in, and we were only at Kettering. I gritted my teeth and started to sweat. By Market Harborough, I could last no longer. I had two choices: wet myself, or get off the train.
I got off. The station was deserted, the toilets long since locked up. In desperation, I crouched down in a siding. I’ll spare you the details, but the relief was immense.
Once my most pressing concern was dealt with, I had new problems. I was alone, in the early hours of the morning, with next to no money. I must have owned a mobile phone, but either it was out of credit or the battery had died. In any case, Google Maps and Uber hadn’t been invented yet.
There was only one thing to do. I found the station’s payphone and called my friend Portia, my partner in crime, who always had a clear head in a crisis. (She still does, 25 years on; she is now a headteacher.)
Somehow, she located Market Harborough’s Travelodge and gave me directions over the phone – thankfully it was a short walk away. I think it was only the second hotel I had ever stayed in; I was more used to campsites, caravan parks and youth hostels. It cleaned out my remaining cash, but at least I had a bed for the night.
Weirdly, I can’t remember how my parents reacted when I finally got home the next day. Friends thought I was an idiot for getting off the train, but what choice did I have?
There is still no legal requirement for UK trains to have working, or indeed any, toilets. An early day motion on the subject was tabled in 2007, but today there are no toilets on Merseyrail trains, Elizabeth line trains in London, the new tram-trains in south Wales and various others. Some Southeastern trains are being retrofitted with toilets.
In my case, I brought the problem on myself by boozing before boarding. But for many people with disabilities, the lack of an accessible toilet is a real deterrent to travelling by train.
I was lucky to be unscathed by my accidental mini-break in Market Harborough; I have since been on many more nights out and caught countless last trains home. I did learn one lesson, though: I always go to the toilet before I board.
