Welcome break? A motorway service station can be a life-saver…
What‘s the etiquette when you’re stuck on the M40 and really need the loo? In her latest poem, Frieda Hughes finds out
Bladders
The dawn chorus began at five, as I walked two huskies
In the bleaching dark, and the blackbirds and goldfinches
Vied for audio-airspace, throwing their notes into the sky
As if to hear how far their messages would fly. This, followed by
London meetings from Mid-Wales meant that I sat in the slow crawl
On the M6, M42 and even the M40, the one strip of tarmac
Unadulterated by average speed cameras and variable speed limits,
Unusually allowing the blood-flow of humankind
To travel with a less miserable level of governance.
As we inched towards the toilet facilities at Warwick Services
I wondered about the countless bladders under pressure
At the stunted pace of 12 miles an hour. How many men
With enlarged prostates and too much coffee? How many pregnant women
Whose unborn babies were arguing with intestines for leg room?
How many fidgeting children who didn’t want to ‘go’ before they left?
I noticed a roadside car, the driver’s back to the traffic,
Uncaring that anyone could see he was having a pee.
And on the way home again, as drivers queued for the turn offs
They threaded the white lines like tin beads on necklaces,
Grinding forwards with ever-increasing urgency.