Tuesday, June 19, 2018


So, to set the stage, it's important to understand the toilet tissue arrangements at Roseholme Cottage. We use only the best: Charmin Sensitive, the Cadillac of bumwipe. This is stored in an under-counter cabinet down at the far end of the galley kitchen.

If someone is fetching a replacement roll from there and notices we are down to three or four rolls left, they push the appropriate Amazon Dash Button, and a fresh case is summoned to the front doorstep in two days' time. Three, tops.

Anyway, yesterday morning, Bobbi had done her morning puttering-about and headed out the door to physical therapy. I was home alone when my morning coffee had its salutary effect on my still-sleepy digestive tract.

I got up and ambled into the bathroom, only to be greeted by a toilet paper roll with maybe three squares on it.

Not being Sheryl Crow, I ambled with rather more urgency toward the aforementioned kitchen cabinet, only to realize with dawning horror that it was empty.

By this point, my innards were starting to get a little insistent.

Fortunately, there was the latest shipment of toilet paper, still sitting in its case lot box in front of the cabinet.

Normally these boxes are in sorry shape. Containing three 8-roll packs, they are not insubstantial packages and usually burst open somewhat on impact with the front porch.

Not this one, though. This box was as mint as a comic book collector's prize possession, all edges un-rumpled and all corners square. All flaps still tightly glued shut.

Further...and this was a first...the box was sealed shut with clear packaging tape. And I mean it was sealed like the tomb of Amenhotep IV. And here I was in my pyjamas, without a pocket knife ready to hand.

I waddled briskly off in search of a pocket knife and returned to the kitchen, desperate to get into the box. I stabbed at it with the pocket knife in my one good hand, but the packing tape must have been kevlar reinforced, because the box just skittered away from the knife, across the tile floor.

Bracing it against the cabinetry with one foot, I managed to slice through the packing tape, only to discover that the Charmin plant must have bought their box-sealing glue on sale, because they sure weren't sparing in their use of it to glue the package shut.

Just before I had to declare an emergency and kiss my socks goodbye, the box flap tore in the middle, rather than giving way at the glue seal. I hauled out a plastic-wrapped package, tore it open one-handed, and headed for the smallest room at a butt-clenched sprint.

I was successful. It was a small success, but these days I'm taking them where I can get them.

And this was the Great Toilet Tissue Incident of 2018.