There has been an incident

Right. I have had three therapy sessions with my latest woman, and it's all ticking along nicely, thank you. The surface has been scratched and I am enjoying the process. But there is a problem. One of the things she has suggested I try is meditation. She is by no means the first person who has told me I might benefit from chilling the fuck out. My last therapist, who I saw a year or two ago, likened me to a "beautiful acquiline Arab horse charging across a deserted beach, rushing headlong to nothing." Horses are unquestionably attractive creatures, but nonetheless, I wasn't sure the analogy was a compliment. Learning to switch off would be great: I quite enjoy being full of beans, so I don't think I'd do it all the time, but it'd be fun to know how.

As a result, this new woman's got me doing a thing called Autogenic Training, which is a kind of Western, secular meditation. Each week, she gives me new things to do. At the moment, I have to do mental exercises three times a day, each stint lasting around 5-10 minutes. So far, so manageable. When I wake up in the morning, I give it a go. When I get home at night, I rarely manage to get through the session without falling asleep, which I reckon is a positive. But it's the weekday lunchtime element that is causing issues.

Thus far, I have been retreating to the ladies' facilities for these few minutes every day, hoping to catch them at a downtime. Inevitably, however, while I'm focusing on relaxing the muscles in my neck and shoulders, someone walks in, sits down loudly in the next door cubicle and starts weeing. I try to focus on my own energy but in a 'don't think of pink elephants' moment, the 'don't think of the person weeing next door' concept results in me accidentally amplifying the noises until it seems as though my fellow visitor is urinating in a steel bucket perched atop my head. At times like these, meditation is somewhat tricky. I'd challenge the Dalai Lama to remain zen.

In typical self-castigatory style, however, I have been telling myself that I should be able to block these things out. One should not need total silence to meditate - that would be impractical. So I have persevered through the weeks. Right up until ten minutes ago, when a nadir was reached. I declare myself beaten.

I was seated in the cubicle, body and head relaxed, glasses in lap, noticing and not judging the thoughts of tonight's belated birthday gathering that were popping uninvited into my head, (alongside the thoughts of Sherbet Dib-dabs and bad posture concerns and gym dread and last night's dream about swimming in the Thames) when a person, presumably female, entered the room and chose the adjacent stall to mine. I increased the pressure on myself to remain focused. She started to wee. I clenched my eardrums. Suddenly, there was an explosion. I was unsure whether to duck for cover or check myself for shrapnel. I opened my eyes and was surprised to see the walls still upright. Surely something so powerful would have blown the power supply? But no; there was another, and another. I am fairly sure that the methane quantities this girl produced are single-arsedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer. Pint after pint of liquid faeces erupted onto the ceramic just a few inches and a thin layer of MDF from where I was seated, trying hard not to weep or be sick while repeating silently to myself 'I am at peace', as I had been instructed.

Finally, the attack seemed to pass. No all clear siren rang out, but there was a new kind of movement next door. I assessed my options. I still wasn't sure if the bomber knew I was there. From the time she'd arrived, I'd been absolutely noiseless. Yes, my door was locked, but unless she got down on her hands and knees, she wouldn't be sure someone was inside. Despite feeling aggrieved beyond compare at the aural onslaught I'd had to withstand, I felt that the kindest thing to do to someone who'd just suffered such an indignity was to pretend I had heard nothing. And the easiest way to do that was to stay still. More than ready to leave, I nonetheless resolved to lay low.

Eventually, she emerged from her cubicle and washed her hands with an admirable yet slightly emetic thoroughness. But she didn't vacate the sink area. I wasn't sure what she was doing, but after a minute or two, it occurred to me that perhaps she was waiting for me. Perhaps, I reasoned, she was so embarrassed that someone had heard her emissions that she had decided to kill me. I was briefly scared until I remembered that I am an office worker and not in an episode of Sunset Beach. I waited a bit longer. And then a little longer still. Finally, I became bored of this bizarre stand-off. I also admitted to myself that there was a strange part of me that wanted to see who had been responsible for the violent anal eruptions, so powerful that they would surely have made anyone who grew up on a faultline instinctively take refuge under a doorframe. I decided to stand up and declare my presence, but at the instant that I slid back the lock, she made a break for it, tearing out of the bathroom and into the small anteroom. All I glimpsed was her unfamiliar rear view, long dark hair, slim hips, fitted trousers and an understandably purposeful walk.

I washed my hands and left, unseen.

I am not at peace.