Quite often we end up in my local Costa when we pop out to a café (because, as an aside, another stressful thing is when you ask them if they want a treat, and they say they want a gingerbread man, which seems like such an innocuous request, but can you find anywhere that sells them where you can eat in? Can you fuck? But our local Costa does, and it’s a novelty one with holes to put your fingers through to make them walk, and in those little moments of joy I can forgive being in a chain coffee shop).
Anyway, Costa is good in some respects in that it has a reasonable sized toilet. So you go to the toilet but it’s locked. With a code. That’s on the bottom of the receipt. That you turned down, because, no, there’s quite enough scraps of paper in the world thank you very much. And in the meantime, while you’re trying to find out what the code is, your little one is getting more and more desperate by the second.