Puffed with pride
A long time ago, over a dinner party that was several bottles of red and several hours old, the question of who was a scruncher and who was a folder came up.
Toilet paper usage might be something you consider a private matter, but it so happened that the friends of ours who were asking had actually made a movie about it. No, I haven't seen it yet, but someday there'll be a Flemington reunion and I'll be asking to see more than just their holiday snaps.
Anyhow, memories of that conversation came back to me as I took a shower this morning.
We're shower (OK 'douche') gel users in this house ever since being told by a plumber that fats from soaps are really difficult to scrub off tiles and glass. Instead of being forced to blob it into our hands and randomly slap i
t around our bodies before it slides down the plughole, we use 'puffs' to make it go further.
Bear in mind that I don't normally adhere so strictly to stereotyped male and female colour schemes, but at 6:30am in the morning it does make it considerably easier to reach and remember which puff belongs to which scruff.
It also, as I just realised, indicates just who in this bathroom is the folder and who is the scruncher.