There’s Nothing Quite Like A Hot Bath In A Cold World

I know this makes it sound like I grew-up in the 1940’s,
but at home, as a child, I was only ever permitted one bath a week.
Always on a Sunday evening.
And the whole family shared the same water.
Me, my younger sister and my Mother and Father.
Though not always in that order.
And afterwards, we drained the water to make soup.
I came to showers late. Much the same as I did
with foreign cuisine. And, later still, foreign girlfriends.
But when I did, I switched sides with a real vengeance.
And there was no turning back. Nary even a backwards glance.
For reasons beyond my control, several months have passed
since I was last able to take a shower in my own home.
I’ve been forced to embrace anew the truly Babylonian art of bathing.
All the many mysteries of the ablution ritual have been mine to rediscover.
It’s proved nothing short of a revelation. A re-awakening of the senses.
According to the reclusive author Terence Hanbury White,
a true Englishman’s bath ought to be entered warm, before
being slowly raised to hot following his entry into the water.
This, according to Mr. White, will enable the true Englishman
to fully experience the “ineffable warmness, wetness,
nakedness, and milkiness of the steamy relaxation
as it percolates between his hams
with the winter night outside”.
I couldn’t have put it better myself. So I won’t try.

bath-time scene from Harmony Korine's 'Gummo'