PHOTOGRAPH: GALLERY STOCK
According to my mother, I was an unusual child. Unlike most children, including my two siblings, I loved bathtime. I did not need to be chased around the house buck naked and wailing, and practically dragged into the bathroom. As a little girl, I adored the evening process, from hearing the hot water gushing into the tub as the pipes creaked, to the steam, the routine and the smell of the bubble bath. There was no need for me to be bribed with an overabundance of bubbles, like my siblings, their pouting and protests becoming all limbs and laughter as we tumbled into the bath together. Unlike them, I did not need to be cajoled into the water, to go through the same drama and battle every night, only to immediately realise, once immersed in the scented warmth, just how wonderful it was in there. No, not me. I couldn’t wait to wallow in the heat and mould my hair into pointy ‘alien’ peaks with shampoo, fashion the wet facecloth into a scratchy boob tube and pat on foam facial hair. I mean, who doesn’t delight in sporting a bubble beard while ho-ho-hoing like Santa?
“ It’s the ultimate no-questions-asked skive. You just lie there, doing nothing, while underneath the surface, body and mind are cleansing, purifying, renewing ”