All good stories start with a story.
Mine starts with a boy.
After what could politely be called a shitbloodyawful break up, I met a Boy. Actually to be fair he is definitely more on the man side.
He has a proper job, a real flat and a full face of beautifully trimmed facial hair.
In said flat he has a cupboard full of dried goods, emergency tins of soup - you know sensible things.
And loo roll. Tons of it.
Apparently he picks up a pack every time he goes shopping, just like that.
A quick straw poll of friends and family (well my mum and desk neighbour) confirmed that, far from being unusual, most folks consider this normal.
Fast forward a week and once again I'm sitting on the loo reaching out to grasp sweet FA.
I realise that I might possibly need to stop living like a student.
I call my flatmate on her mobile and ask her to run to the shops. It's not my finest moment.
Afterwards the toilet roll feels like a sign. An epiphany of sorts.
I will become the person with the Andrex reserve, (I'll have to actually buy Andrex of course - have you seen the price?). Never again will I be shamed by the prospect of the ankle trouser shuffle.
Next stop kitchen roll.