Cold War

There is a silent standoff taking place in my house.

The scenes are played out over days and weeks, the players strut back and forth about their daily business in forgetful bliss, and only when the appropriate time comes does the drama become real, in fact terribly so.

Should the person have charged headlong into their doings without due consideration, the results of this deadly powerplay could lead to embarrassment, rising anger and resentment, and ruined clothing. With a little care and forethought, horrible consequences are avoided, alternatives are found, and outright violence is averted...at least for a few hours.

No one in my house wants to buy any toilet paper.

I have bought the entire house's supply since I moved in. Once when I held off buying some more for a week or so, people began keeping secret individual rolls in the nooks and crannies of the cupboard above the cistern, and after a while I lost my patience and, in a state of wonder at the pettiness of mankind, I caved in and bought some more. The secret rolls instantly disappeared and everyone started using the main supply again.

Now, whilst budgeting my life to the penny in order to go on holiday in a couple of weeks' time and not have to hitch around Southern Spain, I have decided not to buy any more paper. Let it be someone else's turn.

In this strange saga, minor details of my housemate's lives have come to the fore, and even become vital. Claire, my housemate, works in McDonalds. The only reason life, limb and personal property in the form of underwear have all been kept together in our house is that there is a small yet neverending pile of McDonald's napkins on top of the microwave in the kitchen, one or two of which seem to migrate into the bathroom daily without recourse to human intervention. They are waxy and unpleasant.

I refuse to sustain the lax and frequent bowel movements of my cohabitants. They have enjoyed the comfortingly soft fruits of my labour for too long. They must learn that toilet paper does not grow on trees...well, okay then...they must learn that toilet paper does not miraculously appear of its own accord.

They must consciously acknowledge that there is no longer an endless supply of soft, gentle sheets to feed their filthy habits. They must make this connection, and that connection must be strong, so that it sticks in their minds long enough to be there when they next go shopping. If this connection has to be born of a badly timed realisation resulting in a tight-buttocked descent to the saviour-like pile on the microwave, then so be it.

I shall not be moved.

The thing is, I'm not enjoying the interim all that much.
I might have to keep my own secret roll in the cupboard above the cistern.