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My name's Derek and I pee every two hours. 

"Hi Derek"

Sound familiar?

OK, so you're not a guy and I'm not in your twelve-step group, but if you see me doing the frantic two-step in the mall, don't get in my way and just point in the direction of the washrooms. And yes, it's nice to know that in modesty-mannered Canada there are sinks for washing, but what then would you expect in an oh-so-discretely-termed "bathroom"?

Of course there's a pill for everything, at least everything that pharmaceutical companies know about or can imagine. I'm sure that most of the non-prescription supplements simply generate very expensive urine, but the one I've been actually prescribed is facetiously-named "Flomax". It hasn't however, maximized my flow unless the reference is to the number of times I need to pee rather than volume. When the prostate gland gets tight (and if you're a male and you live long enough, it will) you're gonna have the dash-'n-dribbles.

And for those of you who haven't yet swiped me into left field (would anyone from ten years ago even understand that reference?), I want to talk toilet training for travellers and others.

There we were in Pitlochry, Scotland, at a lovely theatre at intermission. Of the two important things to do, the bar could take second place. The long line of young people could wait for us greybeards to empty our bladders, and finding that facility was simplified by the very prominent signage advertising its location - first indication that building planners were commonsense folk.

Once there, I was amazed to find a large number of stalls and stations. I actually got out my iphone to photograph the evidence, but put it away again in response to some quite unfriendly looks from other users. Sorry about that; I got carried away by the sheer magnanimity, foresightedness, geriatric generosity – whatever – of the designers. It was a simple "Do it & dash" efficiency of twelve or more urinals. I was back to the bar trading elbows with the kids in no time.

So, good on ya, Pitlochry. Not so with many another venue, especially in my home and modest native land. I have been in public and commercial spaces where the common eliminatory bodily functions are not even acknowledged. I gotta tell you; denial is not a good response - certain urges won't go away just because you don't want to talk about them, or even put up a little sign, with an arrow, maybe.

In fairness, that is not the case in all cases. Some proprietors have gone to great lengths to advertise their toilet facilities in grand and comical fashion. The animal husbandry aficianados have their "mares" and "stallions" or "does" and bucks" or even cute little graphics to accompany the biological symbols. I really appreciated driving into small towns in Australia and seeing the large signage telling me where the "toilets" were - no cute euphemisms there where folk had been driving across a lot of empty space for a few hours.

There's also lots of empty space in Tanzania and there it's a matter for the women on safari to simply squat 'n squirt. Of course much of the "empty" isn't really, with acacia thorn bushes being the most ubiquitous filler, and they definitely demand attention when you're baring a delicate bottom. Little kids from nearby villages are a close second – both ubiquitous and demanding attention – as Beverly discovered, much to her annoyance and their amusement.

And still on the subject of location, location, location, and travelling, we've all found relief in those nice clean coin-operated stations in the parks of other countries, England and New Zealand coming first to mind - with a cautionary tale. A buddy (whose anonymity I am pledged to maintain) opted for the cost-saving measure of scooting inside just as his wife emerged and before the coin-operated door lock had engaged. He hadn't noticed the sign that promised the inside would be cleaned after each use and the shower of disinfectant-laced water would be activated every time the door locked shut. On that occasion and for him, it was indeed a "bathroom".

The "pissoires" in Europe on so many street corners are an absolute necessity at festival times, and over there there's some festival going on most of the time. We were in Amsterdam for King's Day and it was a riot - the good kind. There was lots of beer and wine being drunk on all the streets and waterways - floating parties singing their way through town - and lots of peeing going down in the temporary pissoires and into those same waterways by very unselfconscious or very unsober partygoers.

Enough of the small-arms talk. Back to us menfolk. We've got prostates and that's the problem. I have 'em both - a prostate and a problem because I'm an 84 year-old male and it comes with the territory, or so I'm told by the people who know. I visited one of those people recently to talk about the frequency of my nightly toilet trips. He's called a urologist and I say "he" because he was one. I don't know of any female urologists, but given the sense of humour of friends in the medical field I'm sure there are some.

I recently met a few nurses in the medical imaging department of our local hospital who seemed to take an inordinate amount of glee in placing (ramming in) a catheter so that the status of my prostate and attendant stuff could be photographed. It seems women get catheterized with a regularity that their sex requires - childbith and bladder infections among the most frequent. Sorry about that, but still …

I was going to ask for some 4X6 glossies as a memento, but I got into conversation with the urologist as we watched the "livestream" (if you will) and then afterwards I was too busy hoisting up my dignity to think of it. So, now I'm due for a "procedure" and even after hearing it described in some detail, I'm not looking forward to it. Chicken, I know. I'm a terrible patient when I have a cold too.

Hey, I'll do it – whatever it takes to get a decent night's sleep. But let me close on a very optimistic note and I'm optimistic for the convenience of my cohort of geriatric prostate problemers and for the commonsense of some school architects and planners.

It was a high school that provided the dose of optimism, the more refreshing given that those institutions have been the battlegroud for so much of the sex-gender-transphobia wars of this time. I went to pee and asked a student for direction.

When I went "over there" as directed, I found an entranceway labelled "Everyone", and when I entered, I found myself in a large open area with a wall of toilet cubicles and a wall of sinks. The cubicles were enclosed floor to ceiling and as private as, well, your toilet room at home (unless you have toddlers, but then you know you won't have any privacy until they hit puberty.

The facing wall had sinks that were as modern as those at any of the airports or malls that I've dashed into – stainless steel, auto-on/off, soap dispenser. The other notable feature was the free tampon dispenser. I didn't see a condom machine, but there may have been one. There defiitely wasn't a flomax dispenser, but then, I didn't check the adult-ed centre.

I'll keep you posted on the upcoming procedure. but without the photos.

Oh, and here's a poetic concluding comment on the whole messy business. I have a new project which is the writing of sonnets (Shakespearean form of course) using a line from one of the bard's plays as a culminating line. This one from Julius Caesar. Be consoled.

[Julius Caesar Act III Sc 4]

Prostation Explanation

I know that women, far too often cursed

with problems anatomical, seem hexed.

No wonder they so oftentimes have nursed

resentment, and unfeeling partners vexed.

First menstrual complications, then the age

of sudden heat insuffrable and mates

who cannot comprehend nor ever gauge

emotions in their partner's mental states.

All these conditions complicate her life, 

and yet in retribution, grinning fate

decreed that males would also suffer strife.

Possessed of failing prostates, soon or late

they'll want those damned "Depends" for when

"There is a tide in the affairs of men."