Dear Bog Roll Bandit,

Let’s begin with the basics. You know who you are. You’ve walked into the loo, seen that cardboard tube spinning on by with a single sheet of paper hanging on for dear life—and thought to yourself, “That’ll do.” No, it won’t. That one square isn’t helpful, it’s taunting us. It flaps there like a tiny white flag of passive-aggressive defiance, and quite frankly, I’m done.

Is it laziness? Anarchy? A misguided belief that you’re preserving resources for the greater good? Because what you’ve actually done is commit the domestic equivalent of a hit and run. You’ve left someone to face the existential horror of realising—too late—that there is no cavalry coming.

It’s not like replacing the roll is hard. We’re not asking you to rebuild Hadrian’s Wall. You don’t need a special licence. The spare rolls are always in the same place. You know where they are. We all do. They live there. That’s their little bog roll nest.

And yet, somehow, you decided to draw the line at one piece. Not two. Not enough for plausible deniability. One.

Perhaps you believe that leaving a single sheet absolves you from responsibility. “Ah,” you say, smugly, “I didn’t finish the roll, technically.” Well, congratulations. That’s the toilet paper equivalent of licking the last biscuit so no one else can have it.

Let’s talk logistics. That one square? Not absorbent. Not helpful. A panic-inducing whisper of a promise that crumbles at first contact. You’ve left people stranded, hobbling to the airing cupboard like medieval peasants searching for salvation.

And it’s never at a convenient time. No one discovers the One-Sheet Crime Scene mid-laundry day or when they’re casually scrolling. No, it happens in moments of urgent distress, when dignity hangs in the balance and fate lies in the hands of whoever was last in the loo.

If you’ve read this far and feel attacked—it’s because you should. This is your intervention. We’re not asking for heroics. We’re not even asking for emotional maturity. Just… change the bloody roll.

Sincerely,

Everyone Else

P.S. If you also squeeze the toothpaste from the middle, we’re not angry—we’re just deeply, profoundly disappointed.

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Kerry Freeman

Born and raised in Sheffield, Kerry Freeman is an unrepentant tea addict, cat enthusiast, and lifelong expert in the art of looking busy while doing the bare minimum. By day, she works as a minion in a government department (no, not one of the cute yellow ones with dungarees). By night, she brings her wicked sense of humour to untypicable.co.uk as an occasional contributor, where she fearlessly tackles life’s nonsense with sharp wit, historical references, and the occasional inappropriate joke.

Kerry has no children (by choice, obviously), but she does have a cat, which is basically the same thing but with more attitude and fewer school runs. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably find her at a historical re-enactment, enthusiastically pretending she’s living in another century—preferably one with fewer emails and better hats.

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