I do shower, frequently. Honest.
Once a week, whether I need to or not, I'll be there, having a right good how's your father.
But today I had A BATH. Swear down.
Dave's Mum has Betty once a week, in a warm up activity I don't ever like to call "I'm going back to work soon, so she needs to get used to you".
This week I saw MY CHANCE. My opportunity to HAVE A BATH - IN. THE. DAY.
Now before we get into all this bath stuff, let's just iron one thing right out. If you're one of those people who peddles the "I don't like baths, I'm a shower person" crap, and then you back up this ridiculousness by making mention of "sitting stewing in your own filth" then you are being MENTAL. The very beauty of a bath is just that - you sit stewing in your own filth. Marinading in your own grime. Pickling yourself in bodily secretions. Yum. What? They're your own, and there's soap. And soap cancels everything manky out. Especially if it smells dead nice. Amen.
So, I went for a run (this information is not key to the story; just wanted to remind you that I'm THE DANGLERS because I'm still going). That way I'd feel like I'd really earned it. I returned, sweaty, rained on and greased up with the slick pores of one due 'on' lady. And I began the prep.
Dizzyingly hot water - check.
Crap, audibly braincell depleting celeb magazine - check.
Highly scented, eczema inducing bubbles - check.
Pathetic, dust shrouded candle which hasn't been lit since Boo hit the scene - check
Last time I had a bath Betty was exactly two weeks old. I remember this because I decided that a shower was not sufficiently cleansing my episiotomed undercarriage. Turns out neither do bath bombs. Nearly as painful as actually getting her out, I swear to God. Thought the stitches would just fizz straight open right there in the water.
Anywhoo....this time it would be different.
As I pressed my first foot in through the foaming bubbles, sheer bliss swept my body. I settled my immediately light headed self into the 120 degree swelter and decided to get the housekeeping over with first.
- Shampoo. Rinse.
- Conditioner. Rinse.
- Tame body hair to shaveable length. With garden shears.
- Shave stuff with a three month old razor. That twangs every hair out I-N-D-I-V-I-D-U-A-L-L-Y.
- Squeeze stuff that looks like it's got white stuff in it. No? Just me?
- Hack at ingrowing toenail (right foot). Scrape at fungal nail infection (yellowing foot). No? Just me?
And finally -
- Pluck a handful of hairs out of my plaitable 'snail trail' (the pubes that link your belly button and gubbins). Now that is not just me. I don't care what you say - even Jennifer Aniston has got those bloody follicular fronds wound round her fly. So shut up.
And - relax.
I sat back in the gorgeous coconutty whiff of something cheap and bubbly. Which made me itch. As I flicked the rubbery chunks of skin that were crumbling from my forearms back into the water, I closed my eyes and lay back. Gorgeous. I allowed myself to drift for a few minutes. THIS is a bath. Totally calming. Thoroughly relaxing. Bliss.
Or it was.
I gently opened my eyes; just in time to witness a sizeable cube of my crimi-nail drift past my chin. It came to rest in a litter of pubes that had collected at one side of the bath. Scanning the water surface, the bubbles quietly ebbing away (Tesco Value), I surveyed the grey sea of dead skin, hairs, nail shards, spot pus, skin chunks and that tasty brown crust my preenings had deposited about the edge of the mildewed, black mould spotted shower curtain.
I e-a-s-e-d my carcass from the pit of filth, pulled the plug then cleaned my teeth, ears, eyes and every other orifice with the most painfully minty toothpaste I could lay my hands on.
Then I started the shower.
I don't like baths.
*blows another chunk of toenail from nostril*