The Cornish Loo Roll Crisis
My husband and I were in Cornwall last week where we’d rented a gorgeous little fisherman’s cottage in Helford Passage, right on the waterfront. The setting was truly idyllic, the sort of place you tend to see in romantic comedies, with people swimming, and children splashing, and scruffy dogs playing, and little fishing boats bobbing up and down, while majestic sailing boats glide up and down the estuary. There was a picture-perfect pub serving hearty food, and the weather was on its absolute best behaviour for the entire week, too.
The cottage had three bedrooms and was fully equipped, with a lovely welcome basket filled with delicious biscuits, Cornish tea and coffee, toffees, a nice bottle of wine, and cheese-flavoured crackers. There were dish-washing tablets, as well as basic cleaning products. What the rental agency had forgotten to include, however, was a couple of spare rolls of toilet paper.
This wouldn’t have been a problem if we’d had time to drive to the closest village, find a shop and stock up on more basics than the ones we’d brought with us. But we’d only been able to move into the cottage at four o’clock on Friday afternoon, and we had to be in Falmouth, about half an hour away, by six for my daughter and her husband’s pre-wedding reception. And we didn’t notice the absence of spare loo rolls until the following morning, which was the day of the wedding!
Yikes!
There were two ladies staying at the cottage next door who had noticed our well-dressed comings and goings, and with whom I’d exchanged a few excited words about the celebrations.
When I realised on Saturday morning that any big business was looking a little risky, I decided to see if our friendly neighbours might have a couple of loo rolls to spare. As luck had it, they’d just made a big Waitrose order and had accidentally ordered two packets of Andrex’s softest instead of just one, so we were more than welcome to take the extra. I offered to pay them back once I got some cash, but they insisted there no need, which was awfully kind.
I’d noticed they were both spending a lot of time reading in the sunshine on their little terrace overlooking the sea, and since I had a copy of “Just Like a Movie” with me, I went to get it and offered it to them. They graciously accepted, and over the next three days I couldn’t help noticing that, whenever I walked by, the younger lady (who turned out to be the other lady’s niece) couldn’t seem to put it down. I’d never seen a stranger reading my book before, and although I didn’t camp out on our terrace and stare at her because that would have been beyond wrong, I kept seeing her smile, or giggle a little, which felt so incredibly satisfying. It made me so happy to see someone enjoying it, especially as judging from how many pages she’d read, I could more or less guess what was happening in the story.
On the morning of the fourth day, we were all on our way out when I saw the young lady packing up her things, getting ready to go home. She told me that she’d absolutely loved Just Like a Movie and was really sad to have finished it. “I feel like I’ve lost all my friends!” she said, earnestly. “Are you going to write another one? Oh, please, you have to! I need to know what happens next! All those lovely characters can’t just be gone forever!”
I had goosebumps, literally, because that’s exactly how I felt when I finished writing the book. I’ve often wondered whether I should attempt to write a sequel, and quite a few people have encouraged me to do so, but I’ve always felt torn, because so many sequels don’t live up to the original story. But then again, so many of them do. So, what am I waiting for?
The truth is that there’s a massive element of fear holding me back. Fear has had a hold on my writing for a long time and is something I’m gradually trying to work through.
However, I’ve just had an idea.
Maybe my next romantic comedy should be set in a waterfront cottage in Cornwall, with a cute meet involving toilet paper. I could call it “The Cornish Loo Roll Crisis”! Hmmm! Now we’re talking!
What do you reckon?