I read somewhere that tomorrow (October 7) was National Bathtub day. I didn’t even know we called it the bathtub anymore? Did we ever?
Whatever, it was like pouring salt on an open wound – I don’t have a bath, or bathtub. This is the third flat I’ve lived in my adult life without one. I don’t know what I am doing sometimes.
The first property I owned had a small shower room. But I was in my 20s, and life was far too fast-moving to spend it in a bath. Back then my sole reason for having a tub would have been to lie in it, smouldering, coming down after a weekend high, and trying to do that angsty underwater thing you see in all those gritty TV dramas and Mike Leigh or similar type films.
I moved to my second property seven years later, and there she was – my bath. Again, though, I wasn’t that in love. I filled her with booze for a party – that was fun, and I stood in her every day as I showered the fug of sleep from my exhausted eyes, and the rest. I was working at a tabloid newspaper. I had no time to bathe.
So, I got rid. I voluntarily removed the tub, and had a beautiful bathroom makeover, with a fancy shower. When I came to sell the flat, every viewer bar none remarked ‘oh, there’s not a bath‘. I just smiled sweetly and wished in my heart of hearts, after a year on the market, that a shower lover would arrive, and buy my flat, sans bath.
They did, eventually, and I moved to a big old rented property with a not so big old bath. It was tight. My husband’s broad shoulders got stuck when he lay back in it, but we bathed, and bathed, and bathed. I fell in love with lying in the bath.
I joined the Lush blogger brigade, instagramming pics and videos of their wonderful bath bombs fizzing away, creating crazy coloured water for me to soak in. My husband ran baths for me coming home if I was out late – I became a bath addict.
I loved nothing more than lying in my own filth, candles lit, iPad on, watching crap TV, drinking tea, eating, waxing my eyebrows, applying face masks and watching my skin turn prune-like, as I topped up the hot water over and over again.
And then we moved. After years of being a student, and a skint freelance, we got our finances in some sort of order and bought a little flat with the view to refurbishment at some stage.
And, of course, there’s no bath. Our showerroom is so small and uninviting I spend as little time in it as possible. Washing is perfunctory, not a pleasure, and rows of candles sit, unlit, losing their scent, stacked next to bottles of luxurious bath lotions and potions, all unused.
It’s been a long, bath-free year. On a recent holiday abroad, in sweltering 30+ degrees heat, after fourteen months, I had a bath. It wasn’t the same though, lying in lukewarm water, sweating, and realising that baths are not for sunny days.
Now it’s winter, and enough is enough. We’re going to remedy this bath situation once and for all, and ‘operation BATHroom’ is about to begin. No more national bathtub day anger.
I can’t wait for prune-like fingers again!