How I long for toilet paper. Not Andrex, not the labrador puppies scurrying about getting all tangled up in white sheets, none of that. I’d be happy with the disgusting pink scratchy paper you get when you stop at a motorway cafe on the M1 and manage to tear yourself away from WH Smith long enough to use the bathroom (on that note, why do people call it a bathroom? It’s not a bathroom. Or a restroom. You don’t rest or have a bath in there. You use the toilet. So let’s just call it a toilet. No airs and graces today, as you will see in due course.).