FEW scenarios define desperation as succinctly as three cups of tea in a strange town and the subsequent search for the closest, darn it, ANY public convenience.

When you're in the middle of the countryside, relieving yourself behind a bush is an accepted default option, although not without its hazards. When myself and a friend found ourselves caught short halfway up a Munro, we presumed we'd put enough distance between ourselves and the main group to, er, powder our noses (we left no paper trail folks, don't write in). So you can imagine our horror when moments later a rescue helicopter appeared, literally out of nowhere, and hovered above us while its occupants ascertained that we were not in need of assistance. Either that, or they just laughed their heads off at our attempts to look nonchalant.

On another country walk and hopelessly lost, we decided to nip into a local hostelry and use the facilities. As soon as we pushed open the door, I realised our mistake. It was one of those entrances when the accordion stops playing, the bar dog pauses mid-scratch and a dozen pairs of eyes follow you across the room. After contemplating jumping out of the bathroom window, we made the long, slow walk back to the door to a lone shout of: "Did you have a nice pee then?" Cringe.

While being stuck for facilities when you're out in the sticks is somewhat predictable, it seems that public loos in towns are becoming as rare as hens' teeth. The Great British Toilet Map, launched last week, revealed a dire lack of public toilets across the land with eight UK councils providing absolutely no provision.

The fact is they are supremely useful places. As a teenager, the public loos near the shop where I worked were the venue for many a Superman change which allowed me to hit the town straight from work. After a downpour, hand driers are great for drying off soaking wet hair and, on occasion, clothes, and for older folk and mothers of young kids they are an absolute necessity.

In some places, the only option is one of those awful automated brown loos. They're better than nothing, but I can't get past my irrational fear that the door isn't locked and, at the most inopportune moment, will slowly open to reveal me like a prize on the Generation Game. Saying that, after missing a night bus from Edinburgh, I did spend the best part of an hour in one. On that occasion, 20p for twenty minutes shelter from weather and weirdos was money well spent.