A couple of years ago, I wrote a poem with the title ’Has anyone seen the paracetamol?’

All it does is list, as a rhyme, a wide variety of human illnesses. It ends with the punchline, ’and you think that you’ve got problems’.

Everything is relative. We’ve all got problems, and your problems will be different to mine.

But to the individual who is worrying about his leaky kitchen tap, spare a thought for the man who has to get his water from a muddy hole in the ground.

Now I don’t want to spoil your breakfast, but I’ve just seen off a particularly nasty stomach bug. You know the sort of thing I mean.

You feel so rough, you think that the end is nigh and, furthermore, you just don’t care.

And then you get better.

Fast forward a few days. We were watching what looked like a travel documentary about India on the BBC.

And you think that you have problems.

This episode was about a city called Varanasi, which is in the middle of India.

I shall never again complain about our rates bill. I shall never again complain about the lack of public toilets in Douglas.

We just have no idea what the words ’lack of public toilets’ means.

Varanasi, a city that I had never heard of before, is built on the banks of the River Ganges. It is a large,busy place, absolutely heaving with people, dogs and cows.

There are narrow streets full of shops, food stalls and workshops. There are vehicles, push bikes and handcarts.

You name it, it’s here.

But there are no toilets. Imagine coming down with a sudden violent tummy-bug in Varanasi?

We live in an old-ish bungalow in deepest Onchan. There are two of us and we have two toilets. Varanasi has none.

The city is built on the banks of the sacred river, the Ganges.

Thousands and thousands of pilgrims, from all over India, come to bathe in the river. They completely immerse themselves and wash their hair.

Children play in the river, they dive in off boats, they spray each other with mouthfuls of water.

And there are no toilets.

There are others who feel that their days are numbered, and come to die in their sacred city. Other families will bring the bodies of their recently-departed to be cremated on the river banks.

Apparently to be cremated in such a holy place, guarantees a fast-track ticket to your ultimate destination. The funeral fires are burning day and night.

The grieving relatives smear each other with the dearly departed’s ashes, then they all dive into the river to wash themselves clean.

And there are no toilets.

The Ganges is not a river, it is an open sewer. It is full of human waste, animal waste and industrial waste.

The residents appear to be clean and healthy, the children appear to be fit and well, and without exception have mouths full of bright, white teeth.

The film ended. The presenter waved a fond farewell to Varanasi, and flew off, business class, to somewhere else in the world, to count the toilets and start all over again.

We topped up the Merlot, changed channels, and settled down again to watch another documentary. This one was about a new, five-star, luxury cruise ship on its maiden voyage.

Do you know, I’d never thought about it before, but it must take some organising to make sure that there is enough lobster and caviar on board to satisfy the appetites of two thousand passengers for two weeks.

The head chef was hoping to keep things topped up by the local fishermen at the various ports of call.

And you think you’ve got problems.