In Life

This November, we were beyond lucky to visit Santa's workshop in Lapland.

He has quite a few manufacturing facilities in the region, but this was Mr Claus's original homestead, where he formed his philanthropic ideas and crafted his wooden toys before expanding into a global enterprise. He still holidays in the area, and the day we arrived, to our utter disbelief, he was on site and eager to meet us.

We were welcomed into his cabin-like home and shown around. As we waited to see him, one of the elves asked if we wanted to use his bathroom. Of course, I jumped at the chance.

The Elvish girl in a green felt hat, wool jumper, and red skirt brought me through Santa's humble but snug bedroom decorated in Lappish wall hangings, down a heated, wood-floored hall to a simple cream-painted door.

"You can even use his toilet, Helena," she winked.

The elf had told me her name was Evie and that she was one hundred and eight years old. I was dubious as she looked so young, but right then I knew she was telling the truth, because hidden in that wink was my secret.

Ever since I can remember, the toilet has been my favourite place on earth. Some say it's because I love poo, and it's true, I do have a fondness for poo (and a poetic tongue too), but that is not the driver of my love and deep appreciation for the ceramic bowl.

Growing up, I would often spend hours crouched on it in peace, reading a book. As I've aged, the crouched position has led to painful pins and needles when I decide to vacate, which is hardly ever by choice. Mostly, I'm forced off by frustrated family members who profess to have 'waited ages' and, once out, am always greeted with the one-liner 'I thought you'd fallen in'.

Time stops when I enter a bathroom, as though they are liminal space, existing outside the rules of normal life. Their usual small size is comforting, and there are no expectations; there's no office table where work awaits, no kitchen counter where food needs prepping, no blank TV waiting to be switched on and consumed. It is a space where I could do anything or nothing, and no one will ask what I was up to; to do so would be impolite.

When I had kids, the toilet wasn't just my friend; it became respite, a hideout from the doing of things.

My best thinking takes place on the loo, my best zoning out, too, and above all, my best reading. I've shared more stories with that bowl than the average book club.

The toilet is also a true leveller; even Hollywood elite would appear normal if papped trousers round ankles, bare bottom on the loo.

So, when presented with the option, using Santa's toilet was a dream I never knew I had.

As Evie closed the door and I heard the comforting click of the lock, I began to unpeel the layers of clothing built up as barrier against Arctic temperatures before lowering myself onto the throne.

This, I knew, was where my hero, the genius inventor with luminous imagination, the man who made all children jitter, who wielded true magic and weaved it around the world, did his best thinking.

I closed my eyes and soaked up his wizardry, hoping somehow it might find its way into my books, until the familiar knock of frustration and the hustle and bustle of disgruntled others in the hall pulled me from my bliss.

I rose and began the mission to recloth before taking some awkwardly angled photos, posted above. I wasn't going without mementoes. This I never wanted to forget.

Later that morning, we met Santa. All four of us were star-struck and silent. But as I was leaving, he grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear.

"Merry Christmas, Helena. I hope you flushed - I'm the only one allowed to leave gifts."

SANTA'S TOILET