Reginald Ponsonby-Smythe considered the purchase of Blackwood Manor the crowning achievement of his life, a life which had hitherto consisted mostly of successful middle-management and a prize-winning begonia. He was showing his new, deeply unimpressed neighbours, the Hendersons, around his library.
“And this,” Reginald intoned, gesturing at a wall of leather-bound books, “is where the previous owner, the Earl of Puddleton, would have done his… Earl-ing.”
Mrs. Henderson nodded politely, while Mr. Henderson was surreptitiously trying to get a signal on his phone.
To add a touch of intellectual gravitas, Reginald reached for a particularly dusty tome. He’d meant to grab “Sonnets of the Great Poets,” but his hand slipped and snagged on “A Treatise on 18th Century Door Hinges.” As he pulled it, the book refused to budge. Instead, the entire bookshelf gave a petulant groan and swung inwards, revealing a dark, spiral staircase.
A collective gasp. Well, Reginald gasped. Mrs. Henderson made a small ‘ooh’ sound, and Mr. Henderson looked up from his phone.
“My word,” Reginald boomed, his chest puffing out like a pouter pigeon. “A secret passage! I always knew this house had character! Probably leads to a hidden vault! Or a crypt! Or perhaps a secret wine cellar filled with priceless vintage ports!”
He snatched a candlestick from the mantelpiece (it was electric, but the effect was the same) and plunged into the darkness with the Hendersons trailing behind, mostly out of a sense of social obligation.
The staircase was steep and coated in a thick, fluffy layer of dust that smelled of deceased spiders and disappointment. It corkscrewed downwards for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only thirty feet.
“We must be deep beneath the foundations now,” Reginald whispered dramatically. “Who knows what forgotten secrets we shall uncover!”
The staircase ended abruptly at a small, plain wooden door with a simple brass handle. Reginald paused for effect, raised the electric candlestick high, and threw the door open with a flourish.
“Behold!” he cried.
The room was not a vault, a crypt, or a wine cellar. It was a small, circular chamber, barely ten feet across. And it was filled, from floor to ceiling, with loo roll.
Hundreds upon hundreds of toilet paper rolls were stacked in neat, cylindrical towers. There were two-ply, three-ply, quilted, and even a few festive ones with little snowmen on them. In the centre of the room, on a small pedestal, sat a single, golden-wrapped roll.
There was a profound silence, broken only by the faint hum of Reginald’s candlestick.
Mr. Henderson was the first to speak. “Well, that’s practical,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “The Earl of Puddleton must have really hated running out.”
Mrs. Henderson peered at a stack. “Is that the aloe vera infused? It’s ever so gentle.”
Reginald stood frozen in the doorway, his dreams of treasure crumbling into soft, absorbent paper. His grand, historic manor didn’t have a secret vault. It had a panic-buying pantry. He stared at the golden roll, his magnificent discovery reduced to a novelty bathroom accessory.
“Well,” he finally muttered, his voice deflated. “At least we’ll be prepared for the apocalypse.”