Andy Richardson: Are you sitting comfortably? I'll begin

"Just there," she added, gesturing towards a corridor lined with platinum and gold discs. There was no mistaking the success she'd enjoyed – nor my need to visit the little boy's room right there and right then.

I paced along the hallway, stopping at the room she'd pointed out. Opposite the door was a collection of posters. Her band featured prominently in them. Bang – Number One in the UK Album Charts. Bang – Number One in the UK Single Charts. There were awards from this and accolades from that, not to mention glossy magazine covers from the UK's biggest titles. There were photographs taken by award-winning snappers, making the rock star look somehow otherworldly. It was impressive stuff.

I disappeared into the men's room and hit the light. I gasped. The room was smarter than most 5* hotel rooms. Even her toilet was fit for a rock star. Made from moulded, sparkly, glittery silver plastic, it was the acme of rock'n'roll. Hell, it was even a little bit broken, presumably from all of the wild and raucous parties that rock'n'rollers throw.

The most interesting thing, however, wasn't the gold and platinum discs that lined the hall, impressive though they were. Nor was it the slightly wonky, sparkly silver loo seat, which needed a touch of DIY, TLC and other acronyms that indicate a requirement of urgent help. No, the most fascinating thing, to me at least, was that two of my books were parked beside the toilet. How about that? My books were next to a rock star's khazi. Who knew?

Now before I get carried away with the casual placement of two books about chefs, I should back up and explain. In my spare time, I write books. Most of them are about food and they usually involve taking lots of glossy pictures of gourmet burgers, Michelin-starred desserts and fantastically appetising dishes. Though I'm often invited to eat the food that I photograph, I seldom do. I'm already more than 10kg too fat and plates of duck liver parfait on duck fat toast are unlikely to make it easier to fit into my too-tight trousers. Besides, by the time I've taken a half decent photograph of any particular dish, it's become tepid-to-cold.

And much as I admire the creative work of fantabulous cooks, I don't want to live on a diet of congealing food. Man invented fire to cook with when he was still in caves. There's no need to undo thousands of years of civilization for the sake of a free dinner.

The pictures – call them food porn – fill most of my food books. They sit beside recipes, but I'm sure nobody ever uses those.

People buy food books so that they can salivate at dishes that they don't have the skill to cook. It's a pretty simple deal, truth be told. And there were two of mine, right beside the rock star's loo.

I'd thought they might have found their way into the kitchen. There diversion to the most private room in the house must have been some sort of compliment. Surely. No, really. Really. . . Actually, let's hold it there.

Our bathroom doesn't have a small library of food books parked beside the throne. In fact, there aren't any books. I always thought bathrooms were for ablutions, rather than deciding what to cook for supper. I once put a Sudoku puzzle book in the bathroom. But even that wasn't so that my autistic mind could dazzle itself with its numeric brilliance. It was because one of the legs on a cupboard was wonky and I needed something to prop it up.

But visiting the rock star's loo opened the door to a world that I didn't know existing: it was the world of reading on the toilet.

Far be it from me to supply the high calibre editorial of Weekend by ruminating on such base and earthy matters. But needs must. Do people really do that? Do they have time? And what happens if they get to a really good bit in their book but have finished their, uhum, business, so to speak. Do they have to sit there until they get to the end of the chapter, so they find out what happens?

And so, after my unexpected brush with notoriety in the rock star's loo, I've bought a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses. I shall proudly walk it to the toilet with me every time I visit. If it's good enough for rock stars, it's good enough for me. For now, I'm in with the in crowd.

Now, back to page 434.