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That Feeling When… You Run Out of Loo Roll and Have to Resort to Kitchen Roll

This is the first in a new series I want to try. It’s capturing those embarrassing yet hilarious moments I experience with my IBS. Ones I can look back on and go, oh shit, yeah that happened. Maybe you can relate. Maybe you think, christ, she needs to get her life in order. Maybe you just fancy a laugh at my expense. I’ll take any of the above, I’m not fussy.

That Feeling When… You Run Out of Loo Roll and Have to Resort to Kitchen Roll.

Picture the scene.

I’ve rushed into the bathroom, my bowels are gurning.

I pop the jean button that’s digging into the bloat. Pull down my trousers. Take a seat and feel an immediate sense of relief.

I sigh. Finally at ease.

Maybe I whip off my jumper.

As I go to grab the toilet roll I realise that there are only two squares left.

Two squares.

Two squares and IBS-D do not a happy bottom make.

I try to remember whether I have any in the cupboard, because I usually have a spare 9-pack in case of moments like these.

But I don’t.

Of course I don’t.

Bloody typical, that.

This means I have to make that last resort.

You know, kitchen roll.

Scratchy kitchen roll.

Meant for wiping spills not arses.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Everything about kitchen roll is wrong for this last-resort use. The size. The texture. The thickness. The fact that it lives in the bloody kitchen.

All wrong.

Yet in that moment, it works. It has to. What’s the other alternative?

Newspaper?

While that might work for the rabbit’s litter tray, I don’t fancy imprints of Trump all over my backside.

So kitchen roll it is.

And a trip to the shops when the flare is over.

Tell me you’ve been there too? #ThatFeelingWhen

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