Keeping Abreast of Brest . . .

While strolling in Brest not long ago, very close to the prison that was photographed just a few posts down, in the oddest of places I happened to find this colorful public toilet. Now, if you've been reading these pages for any length of time, you may be aware that there has been quite a debate going about whether there are any public toilets in France. It has been established that in Paris, near the Madeleine, there are indeed some beautiful old public toilets. But elsewhere in France, the quest to locate one can be long and difficult at times, particularly if one is really desperate to find one fast rather than resorting to peeing by the roadside, which is a common sight in France, for the reasons just touched on. And for the fairer sex, peeing by the roadside is not always a viable option when there are no trees or shrubbery nearby.
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So, I was pleasantly surprised in one of the oldest streets in Brest to find this colorful pleasure palace, and well equipped at that, with a toddler's potty, and a whisk broom to sweep up with. (In case one misses ?)
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Not far away on a wall there was this bit of graffiti, which echoed the colors of the toilet rather nicely I thought . . . as you can see I'm a color coordinated fashion oriented kind of guy . . .
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And finally, in this third (that's right Loulou, three photos!), there was a magical opening in a heavy metal gate into another dimension, where colors don't exist, and all is black and white. I wouldn't mind trying life like that for a while . . .
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Odds & Ends . . . (very odd !)

There are just a few things I wanted to say, which is to say, there are so many things I want to say, I hardly know where to start . . . so please bear with me if this post is a bit disjointed . . .
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A kind commenting reader voiced mild surprise the other day that I was only just now getting around to posting some photos I'd taken back in August. But the reality of the situation is, there are hundreds of photos taken back in August that I hope to be posting sooner or later in these pages, as well as many since then, and even more from before last August, not to mention the thousands of black and white negatives which are still slowly making their way through the waiting line at the lab to become digital files . . .
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So, where to start ? Perhaps with a reference to a post which was just re-posted a few days ago at Where's My Effing Pony, on the giddy subject of outhouses, or more precisely, porta-potties, and specifically, the dangers of having one fall over with you in it. I think it is safe to say that it requires a writer of some talent to bring such a subject to life and infuse it with hilarity; I will let you judge for yourself by going over there and reading the post for yourself. But I'd like to toss out, that between the post just referred to, and another at Not Waving but Drowning, there was quite a little discussion going there for a while as to whether or not there are any public toilets whatsoever in France, and if so, have they been cleaned any time recently ? So I present this photo taken yesterday in the town of Albert as proof that YES, there are public toilets in France. It is true that they are not always easy to find, but it is just not fair or balanced reporting to state that there are none. There are some, and I have found them. Much to my considerable. . . relief . . .
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Now, having cleared that matter up definitively I think, let's get on to the next subject in this ramble. For some reason, both the Sagittarian at More Canterbury Tales, and Jeff at Life Is Beautiful, have been going on about massages recently. Now, along with public facilities, it is important to be able to find a good massage should one need one urgently . . . so in case anyone was wondering, there are massage parlors in France, as this photo from Paris attests . . .
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And also on Life Is Beautiful, Jeff just posted a day or two ago a lovely photograph of a spider web, tying it into the notion of dreaming. To echo that, I'd just like to submit my own spider web photo taken a few weeks ago near the Bay of the Somme River . . .
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This next one may in fact summarize quite neatly all of my early conceptions of France . . . as a place where poodles were groomed with surprising sophistication. And yesterday, at long last, after years of searching I finally found an image to symbolize that early (no doubt cliché-ed) conception ! I was giggling so hard I could hardly focus my camera . . . thank goodness for auto-focus lens mechanisms ! (My early conceptions of France obviously evolved over time to more subtle ideological representations, with the necessary passage via Frank Zappa's song "In France", which expanded my understanding considerably. If you can't quite make out the lyrics in this YouTube version, Google the lyrics separately, they are priceless, and also mention the famous french poodle, so I was not the only one who had poodles linked to their perception of France !)
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This view puts the sign in perspective, it was not far from the central church in the town of Albert, which you will recall was at the heart of the Somme battlefield region in World War I. Albert was taken by the Germans in March 1918, only to be recaptured by the English & Australians & New Zealanders later that Summer. The church seen here was heavily damaged in the shelling of Albert.
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And to conclude this disjointed little rambunctious ramble (well, I warned you), is this photo which I considered posting separately under a (borrowed) title like "Weird Scenes From the Gold Mines". I will let you decide what you think is going on here and share your conclusions in the comment box . . .
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Been There, Dunny That . . .

There are some things in life which we just want to forget about as quickly as possible. Certain things that we flush away and never want to hear from again. Not now. Not ever. Don't write and don't call. Just disappear thank you very much.
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This past week at work is one such thing. Think Tchernobyl. Think Bhopal. Things that never should have happened, but did. And they left a big stink in their wake. And alot of grief.
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But it is Sunday now where I am, and for all intents and purposes, this past week can be classified as "OVER". Over and out. History. To be flushed and forgotten.
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My blogging pal Nathalie at Avignon in Photos taught me a new word a while back which I'd never heard before for the subject of the photo here . . . it is known in Australia as a "Dunny". In other places it is also known as a john, a johnny, a latrine, the lavatory, a litter box, an outhouse, the pot, the potty, a privy, the restroom, a sandbox, the throne, the washroom, the water closet, a latrine, an outbuilding, the washroom, the jakes. The "jakes" ? For heavens sakes, I'd never heard that one before either.
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The more formal definition is : "a small outbuilding with a bench having holes through which a user can defecate". And then forget. Quickly.
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A Trip to the Loo . . .

As has been mentioned by a few other bloggers (you know who you are !) ; toilet facilities in France, if existent at all, are sometimes rather primitive. Take this precariously perched outhouse (or "dunny" in some parts of the world) on a stone wall which in fact formed the river bank there, so anything excreted while seated would fall straight into the water. . . I wouldn't want to live downstream from this place ! Doesn't that just make your day ?!? You wouldn't want to tip over in this one, you might drown, or at least go for an unplanned punting trip down the river !
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From Dream House to Comfort Cottage. . .

Some of you may recall the poet Robert William Service, who is buried in the village of Lancieux, Brittany, near Dinard and Saint Lunaire. One of his most charming poems is called "The Three Bares" in which an outhouse suffers an unfortunate explosion. (I encourage you to read the poem... it is quite entertaining) In "The Three Bares" Service refers to an outhouse as a "Palace of Necessity", and also as a "comfort-cot", short I suppose for "comfort cottage".
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In any case, I have shown quite a few examples of some of my dream houses in earlier posts. But until now I have not gone into any really intimate details about those dreamed of dwellings. Time to change that. . .
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The problem with most of my dream houses is that they have been abandoned for so long that they no longer have working plumbing. And therefore other solutions are needed to provide for some of man and womankind's more elementary needs. The photo here shows the palace of necessity behind one such abode. Unlike the one in Service's poem, this is only a lowly one-seater. What really confounds and intrigues me here, however, is what on earth is there a ladder in there for ? ? ? If it is for climbing down into the pit below the seat, I'm not sure I want to know any more. Did any of you see Slumdog Millionaire ? ? ? Reminds me of the comfort cottage out on the end of the pier there. . . :-)
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