I leave the museum and head to College Green. I cross the street with the disused public toilets, which might be as enchanted a water source on May Day as a holy well .... An electrical box stands on the western end, with a picture of a ballerina crossing her legs in a pirouette. It looks like she needs to go to the toilet. There’s a strong smell of piss; I’m not sure if it’s recent or if it’s the ghostly smell of pisses past or if the ballerina hasn’t succeeded in holding it in. I walk sun-wise around the toilets three times and toss some coins down the steps, but I don’t shut my eyes because I’m on the edge of a traffic island in the middle of a busy street, and being flattened by a bus is a miserable way of getting to the otherworld.