...The toilet #2

 So I'm locked in the bathroom - well actually, I'm Jammed in the bathroom
because  it  doesn't  have a lock and that last thing I want is one of the
flatmates to come in and see the old brown-eye winking at them as I forage
in the cupboard for a shred of human dignity restorer.  (I.e. Bog Paper)
I'm actually a bit worried about them since the cat died; they're exhibiting
a large number of of the key signs of sexual frustration,  i.e.  scratching
off beer labels, walking restlessly around the house, getting up really late
at night and being *really* quiet, etc etc

Anyway, I pry the cupboard open and sure enough, there's no bloody paper.
I *ALWAYS* buy paper when I'm shopping, ALWAYS!!!  The girl at the super
market thinks I'm a janitor for a 500 room hotel complex, but I couldn't
give a stuff - I *need* toilet paper.   But not the flatmates, that would
be too bloody easy!  So I'm buggered!

Except...

There *IS* a roller towel in the kitchen...

No, I can't risk it!  I ferret around in the cupboard looking for anything
that will suffice in the meantime.  Shit I *hate* plastic wrappers!

I consider for a moment wiping my backside on the bathmat, but my upbringing
manages to save it's fluffy life.  If it wasn't for my flatmate being a DIY
the bath and shower would be working and all would be solved.

So what to do now?

I'm faced with knowing that I've got to do a runner.  I can run to my room,
but the only paper I've got there is that clean-edge 100 gsm stuff that can
cut a groove in a enamelled desktop, so there's no way it's going near my 
backside, and all my handkercheifs have got vicks vaporub on them, so if I
try one of them it'll be my singing debut with Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire"
(if you know what I mean)

I decide to make a break for the kitchen.  Which means I must pull my pants
up.  I....   ...do...  gently.

Nonchalantly, I run the taps for a couple of seconds in line with my expected
actions (don't want to blow my cover).  I walk down and thru the lounge, and
the flatmates are all watching some intellectually stimulating program, like
"Days of our Lives" reruns, and I'm terrified something's going to go wrong.

What if I trip and hit my head, and they take me to hospital, and I'm in the
ambulance and they have to cut my trousers off and they discover (by smell)
my unwiped bum.  Shit!

Eventually, weeks later, I get to the roller towel and gingerly rip off a
couple of sections as quietly as possible.  The last thing I need is the
wanking idea (again) to pop to the flatmates minds.  I start heading back
to the toilet.  I get to the door, and the phone rings.  I put the paper
down on the ground just as...

"Simon, it's for you..."

Shit!  I can either shout "I'm just going to the toilet", which of course,
to my flatmates is synonomous with "I'm just going to have another pull
because I'm so sexually frustrated, Can someone tape the bikini jam for me.."
or go and answer the phone.  I go get the phone.

It's my brother. 

"Where the hell were you?" He cries.  "You weren't having a wank again?"

I wish the phone wasn't on hands free.  I hang up, it doesn't matter any more.
After him saying that, I have to spend the next 3 days having 10 second toilets
or the flatmates will think...

Fuck it.

"I'm just going to have a pull" I say "Anyone got anything interesting to
whack off to?"
