A bath and a half

It appears that I have sensibly scrapped the idea of naming each article after the tense in which it’s written, in favour of a slightly horrid title that sort of rhymes. OK?

We rejoin the action, the thrilling action which yesterday left you with wet underpants and aching-from-being-perched-on-the-seat-edge buttocks, as I am in the bath.

I lie back, the bubbles licking every millimetre of my body. Apart from my head, of course, and my knees too, due to my need to breathe and my being slightly longer than the bath.

I think. (By that, I’m not indicating a lack of sureness about the previous paragraph – I mean that, reclined in the bath, I do some thinking.)

People come and go. Soon, I am the only organism on the ground floor.

Before I know it, three hours have passed.

THREE HOURS! THREE HOURS! That’s right – three! By this point I am, as those of you with imaginations can probably imagine, even more shrivelled than most good prunes, and as ever considerably less effective at improving digestive health.

If you want to improve your digestive health, eat a real prune, as opposed to me after I’ve been in the bath. If there were some bowel-related benefits, I would look on my history of bathing like I’ve sat on some glue with a smile, and say “well, think of all those digestive systems that I’ve helped”. But that’s not the case. It is therefore my duty to ensure that I prise myself from the bathtub, and rip the moronic stupor from my head, before I become what even someone with the worst of eyesights could mistake for a dried fruit. This will happen tonight. Also, I will trim my toenails (they are made soft by a bath, you see).

That’s all. I got you all excited, but it was really nothing to get excited about. I hold my hands up in the air, and wonder what they’re doing in the air, and then remember that I was holding them up in apology. Soz, yeah?