I hate baths. There are many things that other people like which I absolutely hate.
Baths are one of them. I avoid baths all year long, yet yesterday, like a fool, I thought to myself, ‘Everyone loves a nice relaxing bath. Maybe I should have one.’ (Because it’s not very nice to go about every year thinking all other people are idiots).
I did everything right. I popped downstairs and jimmied with the thing to override the parsimonious heating system. I poured myself a glass of wine (I store my wine in a highly democratic fashion, and therefore you are as likely to receive something extraordinary as to be served cooking wine). I put on The Greatest Hits of the Eighties, so that I could pretend that I was in a John Hughes movie.
I ran the bath in the only sensible way- full blast, hot only. I stopped it long before it could overflow (even accounting for post-Christmas me). I took off my clothes and danced around to Living in a Box for a few moments. I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and stopped dancing instantly. I put my foot into the bath. And removed it instantly. ‘There’s nothing worse than a cold bath,’ I reminded myself. I gingerly topped up the bath with a little bit of cold water. ‘Perhaps there is something worse than a cold bath,’ I pondered as I stuck my foot back in.
I ended up in the middle of the bath, frenetically sweeping cold water with my bare hands through to the end of the bath in a crazed attempt at temperature regulation. I lost all feeling in my legs, and sat down.
‘Ah,’ I thought pleasantly. ‘This is very nice.’ I thought about reaching for my book (which I had pre-emptively placed on the edge of the bath), but my hands were all wet. ‘Ah,’ I thought. ‘This is terribly boring.’
I tried, honestly. I made my knees into mountains and raced my left and right hands against one another. I sank underwater and held my breath until I was nearly dead. I splashed about until there was more water on the floor than in the tub. But after those 5 seconds had passed, I had to get out. Because I am a sentient human, and sitting in an overheated puddle tends to lose its charm rather quickly. (Naturally it took me far longer than I had spent in the bath to get out of it safely, owing to the lake that had spilled onto my bathroom floor). ‘Well,’ I thought to myself as I re-dressed. No matter which way you measure it, the effort to pleasure ratio on that is severely misaligned. And now I have to spend the next 10 minutes mopping up the bathroom floor.’ I’m sorry to say, but baths are no more relaxing than delousing a small child.
You people are idiots.