In New York, as in many big cities, there’s a lack of public toilets; in the Big Apple the name ‘comfort station’ is favoured for the handful that do exist. I say handful; I’m only aware of two - one in Central Park, the other in Washington Square. I had cause to use the second recently. It was not the sort of place where you’d want to spend a second longer than is absolutely necessary. This, despite the three or four attendants who appear to be on permanent duty outside. Their presence may have more to do with security than cleanliness. And being a man is a great advantage. If it’s only a pee, it doesn’t involve cubicles and sitting down. I don’t envy the ladies.

So, faced with this universal problem where do you go? In London, which has seen the closure of many public facilities over the years, I have a few trusty standbys. Large railway stations are good if there’s one close by, making sure that you’ve got twenty pence handy. Department stores are another good bet. Although be prepared for a trek to the top floor, where the toilets are often to be found. In Liberty’s, if memory serves me well, they’re in the basement. Public galleries too, after 10am and before 6pm, offer good facilities, although in New York entry is not free. $20 , even $12 is a bit steep for comfort, despite the favourable exchange rate. The National Portrait Gallery is a favourite of mine in London’s West End. Located in the basement should you need to go. Pubs and bars are a possibility in most cities, if you’re prepared to ignore the ‘toilets for the use of customers only’ notices. Crowded places are best. This also applies to cafes and restaurants.

Faced with the need to go while on the streets of New York, I considered my options. I could drop into a coffee house or diner, ordering the minimum as a price for using the rest room. But this inevitably means some kind of drink, which was the cause of my need in the first place. In an hour or so, I’d be back to square one. While pondering my dilemma, the problem getting ever more pressing as is usual when relief is not at hand, I looked up and saw the answer. I was passing a large ‘boutique’ hotel - the kind that’s featured in interiors magazines. Perfect. Hotels are good. The bigger, the better. Hundreds of people pass through the doors each day. Staff cannot possibly know whether you are a guest, there for a meeting, or to visit the restaurants and bars. As long as your appearance is presentable - not difficult these days, with casual dress codes accepted just about anywhere - and you act confidently as if you belong, you’re in.

The lobby here was on the first floor, reached from the entrance by an escalator. Once there, I slung my rucksack over one shoulder, as if just starting the day, not yet in full street mode, and walked purposefully through the crowded lobby looking for likely rest room locations. In a corridor next to the lifts I struck lucky. I entered the largest WC I have ever seen. It could have accommodated a small jazz band with space left for a dance floor. And it was spotlessly clean, with a stack of fresh towels. My Mum would have been impressed. In fact, it would have made her day. It certainly made mine more comfortable.

Now I was able to concentrate on my plan for the day. The second of my photographic expeditions. A walk down the length of 8th Avenue.