"Excuse me," she said, bounding up to me like a rabbit on speed, "do you know where the nearest toilet is?"
The band at the Gemini beach bar was rocking away, the sun was beating down, we had finally reached the beach after a maddening 30 minutes dodging Brighton's charity collectors. Out of the blue a large woman clad in a monstrous pink rugby shirt manifested herself. She was high and her body language smacked of a terrible bladder situation. She was discomfort itself.
"Um, I'm not sure," I replied.
To be perfectly honest I didn't even try. She had put one hand on Bubba Stoneskin's pram and was leaning forward uncomfortably. It's hard to think clearly in a world congested to overflowing with charity collectors and frenzied high-as-a-kite ladies in hideously large rugby shirts. Especially pink ones. In moments like these I tend to freeze.
"Please," she pleaded, "just make a guess."
"I think there's one by The Exchange," I suggested.
Hope came over the face of this amorphous mass of pink. She leaned forward, the stench of lager-breath was nauseating. Nothing could have prepared me for the randomness of her reply
"Thanks rabbit," she said, and shuffled off.