However, I would add that this is only if the paper is two-ply. Examine the paper to determine whether I need to repeat the process. Equipped now with the perfect, handheld quilt, I wipe in a single, expert, sweeping motion – front to back. Then I fold the length over once, and again. I count them out – one, two, three, four. I wouldn’t have been surprised to read a monologue from Kafka along the lines of: “When I wipe my arse, I like to use just four squares of toilet paper, no more, no less. Boring, unnecessary descriptions – that do nothing to further the story – of what people are wearing, what Kafka likes to do during his workout, what he decides to eat, what he is listening to on his Walkman, and so on. There was so much to hate about this book. Loosely based on the Oedipus myth, and taking some obvious inspiration from Catcher in the Rye, this book seems to be little more than a random hodgepodge of ideas held together with pipe cleaners and raspberry jam. It is such a mess that it makes my six-year-old son’s post-playdate bedroom look like Buckingham Palace. Only 224 pages to go! From then on, my hatred and resentment of this book progressively grew like a dead cow bloating in the heat. It took me until page 70 to stop wanting to hop up and rearrange the spice cupboard or my sock drawer every few sentences, but then the feeling returned at page 243.

Few books have infected me with boredom-induced ADD, the desire to gnaw my own foot off at the ankle, and the state of mind you might experience if forced to sit upon a nest of hornets while watching your home being burglarized, but this was one of them.

Kafka on the shore goodreads