Tuesday, 16 December 2008
So I turned on the taps, as you do, and began to fill the bath. I put in cold water, then allowed the hot to fill slowly. Sitting at the desk I came perused the Scottish Premier League clips, including our victory over the green bigots - well, apart from their late equaliser that is! So I enjoyed our great display, wondered how Aberdeen could avoid a penalty for a foul similar to the one that obtained then a penalty, and laughed when even the TV cameras could not be bothered watching Hibernians dismal display.
I then realised the water was still running! Have you ever attempted to pull out a plug when water is lapping over the sides and burning through your skin at the same time? I do not recommend this! Why is it that normally the tap (That's faucet to foreign Johnnies!) switches itself off and instead of a bath of warm delicious soapy water (no I don't drink it, I mea...oh never mind) I have a dribble lying pathetically in the bottom and I have to wait for ever for it to fill. Good job this bath only happens once a week I can tell you! I would use the shower unit, if it didn't fall down all the time, the water didn't go from sulphurous, burning hot to icy freezing cold minute by minute, and I didn't keep standing on the soap and find myself face down at the door. I'm so glad I am me, it makes life easier for everyone else!
I do however find the most relaxing place is in the bath. In recent years it has become the place to read books, cogitate, and talk to myself. Even though I now find myself talking to myself much of the time I prefer it it in the dimly lit bathroom. I must put a bulb in that socket. I have a pile of books in there and the biggest fear is dropping a favourite and ruining it. How much better to understand the world, past and present, by lying back and steeping yourself in culture and hot water? In days of wealth a few bright smelly candles would ease the pain of work, as I read historical works, or comedy by Wodehouse or Jerome. (That's Jerome K Jerome, not Jerome the ancient Bishop. I doubt he wrote light comedy!) There is little to beat this method of relaxation, until the water freezes over of course.
Which for no good reason reminds me of the three car showrooms we passed during yesterdays lesson in the big town. I had just eased my way through several roundabouts when he indicated these three. One was Ferrari, the next Maserati and the third Porshe! Outside each stood around a dozen cars,gleaming as much as they can in dull overcast Britain. When you consider they start are around £150,000 and go upwards you get a glimpse of the money available in the UK - for some! This reminds me of the P.G.Wodehouse tale, true story, of a film mogul looking for a writer for his latest idea. The story he wished written up comprised a man getting fed up with his ungrateful son and deciding to make him pay his way. In the tale he wishes to cut his ner-do- well son of with only $500 a week! The year was 1930! This film was never made. Did those Hollywood folk never have a clue about real life I ask?