Occasionally, I like to enjoy a good bath. I enjoy the ritual of cleansing my body--daily, but I also enjoy the ritual of sitting in a tub of steaming hot water, surrounded by candles, a cup of tea in hand, Ray Charles crooning in the background and a good book in front of me.

Please notice this list started with: a tub of steaming hot water.

About three weeks ago, I had a lovely evening of nothing stretched before me, so I decided to enjoy it with an evening of pruning my skin. I lit the candles, made the tea, started the music, collected the books and started running the bath water.

First problem I encountered was the simple fact our tub has no little plug. I creatively covered it with a saucer. It leaked. I rummaged about and found a cup. It sort of worked. Whatever.

I sat happily in the bath waiting for it to finish filling. Halfway through filling it turns a very icy cold. Terrific. So. There I sit, in roughly five inches of now tepid water, trying, oh-so-valiently, to get the most out of my icy bath. After ten minutes of this icy soak bit, I rose from the veritable ashes of my dream bath and puttered about the house covered in soam scum and heavenknowswhatelse. I couldn't shower until the next morning since the hot water was gone.

I told this story to my flatmate who assured me that this was most definately out of the ordinary. Her old flatmate took bathes all the time.

Tonight. I tried again.

The same routine, except THIS time I started running the bathwater FIRST. It semed hot enough AND halfway full! Candles, tea, book, Norah Jones and soaking followed ensuit. Except, three quarters full, it turned icy again. I didn't think this would be much of a problem since my bath was full-ish.

I was able to soak for a full fifteen minutes. Until there wasn't enough water left in the tun to cover my body.

I lay there. Shivering. Covered in soap scum. Cold. Wet. Unshaven. Unbathed.

I got up. Frozen. Found TWO housecoats instead of the normal one, because I am very, very cold. I now have dried ON soap scum AND I am unbathed. I make myself another cup of tea and linger by the hot burner trying to warm my icy soapy hands.

My flatmate tells me I look like a fat housewife. Waddling about in two housecoats and unmatching slippers.

These are the single nights I prefer to forget about when giving myself those little pep talks about living alone. I think being smelly and cold is better alone than with someone. That isn't really a theroy I am willing to try out.


But I'll go out on a limb and say--it is.