Confessions of a Hoarder
I received an anonymous call from a woman wanting to make a confession in person about a disturbing habit she had recently developed. I recorded this confession and have dictated here.
I cannot express how dear I hold toilet paper to my heart. I mean, I usually hold it to my arse, but I am talking metaphorically, of course.
The four-ply, soft paper that never scratches, the layers that absolve my hands from the mess that is the output of our digestive systems, the readiness of the paper to com-ply, standing there waiting for me to tear a piece from it, never questioning why, always encouraging me on. Go on, wipe that arse. Make it clean. Need another piece? Sure, friend, I would never let your fingers become poo-laden with that hellish scent from Hades that no soap can ever remove in one wash. The French and their bidets don’t know what they are missing out on!
You must surely understand why, dear reader, when faced with the threat of losing this dear household item that nothing can replace (tissues are too pliable, kitchen towels too abrasive), I have to act. Quickly and repeatedly. No, I’m not talking about the propulsion of my anus after food poisoning, I’m talking about loo paper hoarding.
If I have to be in lockdown in my own home, there is one thing I cannot live without. One act of civility must maintain. The protection of my hand from my arse.
Last Monday, I drove around to all the supermarkets I could find on Google Maps to hoard packets of white and plastic gold. My boot and rear seat were full of them, their little eyelets shining and winking at me, saying, “You are greedy, but we love you.” An old lady with a trolley even asked me while I was reversing the car if I could spare a pack. Does she think I am a fool? Or Father Christmas? I mean, really, have we lost our sanity?
The calm that came over me when I placed every last pack under our staircase out of sight, knowing that no matter what happens, no matter who gets sick or who dies, or how much food we have left in the fridge or how many cans in the cupboard, I will still have the pleasure of wiping my arse and keeping my hands clean.