In the years since Bulgaria’s accession to the EU there have been many improvements to the standard of living, resulting from the increase in wealth. Supermarket shelves groan with exciting produce, town centres sparkle and gleam under fresh coats of paint, and big businesses such as international hotel chains thrive in the city centres.

Some things,  however, are more resistant to change; the roads, for example, remain pot holed and dangerous despite urban regeneration. And on a more private, personal level one thing cries out to be dragged into the 21st century: I’m referring, of course, to the nation’s public conveniences.

I’m the first to admit that when it comes to bodily functions, I am particularly squeamish. My entire system was so horrified at the thought of depositing my dirty loo paper in the bin, instead of flushing it safely away, that for five days after my arrival in Bulgaria I simply couldn’t go. My waste shrank inside me, a silent protest by my body against the threat of having to have anything to do with poo.

The full horror of what to expect from a public convenience unfolded like a Greek tragedy throughout those first few weeks. Each time I went to a bar, I would send someone to scout the facilities, to answer my plaintive question: hole or bowl?

I’m not alone in being this delicate; culturally, going to the toilet is an intensely private, almost shameful act. It’s so undignified that talk about our natural evacuations is often considered at best faintly amusing and at worst puerile. Laughing at toilet humour is a childish pastime, something we really ought to grow out of; except of course, that we will never grow out of the need to poo. It is said that there are only two certainties in life, death and taxes; but the third, unspoken, often sniggered about certainty is that wherever we go in life, we will always need to go.

That’s not to say we don’t try to forget about the whole sorry business. An entire industry has evolved to disguise almost every aspect of going to the loo. We prefer our toilets to smell like alpine hills or mountain dew rather than human effluence and heavy duty bleach. At the extreme end of this camouflage lie those chintzy ladies in their pink lacy crinolines whose sole purpose is to hide the toilet roll, which god forbid anyone should see and mentally connect it to its proper, unsavoury function.

Our very language is peppered with euphemisms for going to the loo: spend a penny, powder one’s nose, visit the little girls’ room, attend a call of nature etc. Referring to public conveniences as the Ladies and the Gents gives them an undeserved air of nobility, although the American slang, "John", brings them down to earth with an everyman quality. Also in the States "bathroom" and "restroom" give a misleading idea of what the room’s for, to say nothing of the mystifyingly universal letters WC (water closet), which sounds invitingly, yet often misleadingly sterile.

As a woman, of course, I am at a particular disadvantage. Without the ability to simply take aim, I am forced to hover, squat and indulge in all manner of unladylike activities to find relief. It is for this reason that I find the predominance of ‘holes,’ often little more than open sewers framed in ceramic, particularly offensive. I once had to pee in Bucharest train station; I had no money on me, so sneaked  in when the toilet attendant was chatting. The toilets were disgusting, a row of stalls each containing a filthy hole to squat over.

On my way out, the attendant was apoplectic that I had escaped paying, and I almost wanted to ask what on earth she thought I should be paying for.

One level up from holes in the ground, but still highly unsavoury are the baffling platform toilets. I refer to the toilet bowls shaped like a small stage, so that anything you have just done sits on a platform awaiting inspection like some sort of votive offering. What is their function? What practical, useful purpose is served by allowing you to inspect your business? Clearly designed by a distraught parent whose two-year-old has just swallowed their wedding ring, these toilets are unappealing in the extreme.

Some mention should be made here of train toilets, which, it must be said, are pretty grotty the world over. The very idea of using a toilet on a train is slightly unsettling, especially since many train toilets offer no illusion surrounding the intricacies of their plumbing. Many trains request that passengers refrain from using the facilities while the train is in a station, presumably to spare the people waiting on the platform the sight of your waste being unceremoniously dumped under the train.

On a recent train ride, while squatting over what could only be described as a bowl of slime, I was horrified to notice a shower unit in the toilet cubicle. Since the toilet was the least sanitary thing I have ever seen, I was puzzled as to how anyone in their right mind would want to conduct their morning ablutions right next to it.

There is, however, hope. International hotel chains and smart new restaurants have pleasant, well-kept toilets as standard, and it can’t be long before everyone is forced to follow suit. Perhaps I am making too much of a fuss; maybe most people hardly give it a second thought. How much time, after all, do we really spend in these dank, fetid rooms, squatting over a ceramic hole and hoping we can hold our breath until we get out? Well, long enough, in my opinion, not to put up with anything less than a gleaming, perfumed, well lit and properly ventilated latrine. Nice toilets are good for business: everybody’s business.