Scruncher, or Folder?

I really don't know why I am telling you this, but I am a folder. The age old question. 

Something came up about it the other day at dinner - I know, pooh talk at the table, inexcusable Mark would say - and everyone present gave their answer, as people tend to do. I gave my answer with my customary chuckle to myself and said nothing more.

However, I am a folder of OCD proportions. The only person who really knows this, is my ex-boyfriend Mark. Sam is not one to share a toilet when the act that necessitates folding is involved. But, Mark and I were much more free about such things. In fact, back in the day when I shared my house with my best friends, we were all much more free with such things. I remember once, when my mate Fergus came into the bathroom when I was taking a dump, he caught me sitting there with a cup of tea in one hand and a joint in the other. He found it so amusing that the next thing the whole household was standing at the open door making comment on my behaviour. And nobody thought anything about it. Ah, for those days.

But it was Mark, before that, who questioned me on my practise. I tear off two sheets of paper and place it on my knee, repeating the process until I have, what I consider, to be the required number of sheets.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Mark.
"What?" I replied.
"What are you doing with the paper?"
"What do you think I am doing?"
"That is what I am asking you," he replied.

You see, I had never been questioned about it before that, as before Mark it had been a rather private matter, and I had never considered what I was doing to be unusual, in fact, I had never thought about the practise at all. It hadn't occurred to me to question it. I guess, I must have done it since I was a kid, never realising what I was doing.

So, at dinner the other night, I simply replied, "Folder," chuckled to myself and the conversation moved on.