THIS week I have been wondering why the world is awash with words for toilet – but none of them really describe what natural human activities actually go on inside the little boys’ or girls’ room.

Instead, they are all euphemisms – perhaps loo-phemisms.

I have been considering this in relation to the series that is running in Memories on a Saturday about lost public conveniences. We’ve flushed out more strange stories for tomorrow’s edition.

But what word should I use to describe these facilities when all the words are shrouded in double-meanings?

“Toilet”, for example, is not a place for urination but an old French word for a piece of cloth or a bag. A traveller would wrap her nightclothes or dressing table accoutrements in her toilette, and when she arrived at her destination, she would retreat to a private room – a privy – to touch up her face or arrange her clothes – to do her toilette.

A WC is a closet, or private room, with water in it. And a lavatory is actually a place for washing as it comes from the Latin lavatorium – a washroom, or bathroom, even.

Our own North-Eastern word “netty” may have a similar meaning, as some people say it is derived from the French word “nettoyer”, meaning to clean or wash. Other people say that “netty” is shortened from an Italian word, “gabinetti”, which is a cabinet in which you may find a toilet.

The Cockneys have “khazi”, but that is even more vague as it probably comes from the Spanish word “casa” for “house”.

The Australians come closest to the true nature of the closet with “dunny”. It is shortened from the Old English “dunnekin” which was a “dung-house” – a good description.

“Crapper” is good, too, even though it has nothing to do with Thomas Crapper (1836-1910) who was a London plumber and toilet-builder. The word pre-dates Mr Crapper, going right back to the 13th Century when “crappe” meant “grime or filth”.

“Bog” is quite vulgar, but rather apt. Some sources say it means “open cesspit” while others reckon it comes from a 16th Century word “boggard” for “toilet”.

The most peculiar of these loophemisms is the one I think we use the most – “loo”. No one has a clue what loo means. Some say it is from the French, “lieu”, for “place”, or “bourdaloue” which was an oblong chamberpot in which one went to the loo.

Or it may came from “garde d’eau” – “watch out for the water” – which was Anglicised to “gardyloo” and which chambermaids shouted to those on the streets down below as they emptied the chamberpot out of the bedroom window.

Or it may somehow be connected with “Waterloo” – perhaps a cistern manufacturer celebrated our victory over Napoleon by bringing out the Waterloo range of toilets. It is funny how nearly all our toilet-related words have something to do with the French.

The best explanation for “loo” is too ridiculous to believe. On old ships there was nowhere to urinate so the sailors went over the side. However, it was important that they went over the leeward side because if they used the windward side they would be troubled by blowback. Proper old seadogs would say “looward” rather than “leeward” and so when he went, he went to the loo…

Can it be true?

So without a proper word to use, we’ll just have to carry on skirting around the issue, too embarrassed to think about what goes on inside the thunder box, the comfort station, the house of commons, the temple of relief or the palace of convenience to know what to really call it.