I take showers. The tubette here at Roseholme ain't much. Sadly, as I have lived in nicer and nicer homes in my adult life, the tubs have become smaller and stingier. My first real apartment, with 15-foot ceilings, a double-pole knife switch and two plug fuses for a "breaker box," a folded-zinc kitchen sink and a pilotless gas range -- all cast-iron and exposed pipes and here's a box of kitchen matches, girlie! -- had a six-and-a-half-foot long clawfoot tub, a yard wide and a yard deep, big enough to float in.* It's been downhill ever since and what I've got now holds a bit over one foot of water. But nevertheless, hope springeth eternal and yesterday, as a part of vacation madness, I took A Real Tub Bath.
Should'a locked the door! Littlest cat found herself floorbound (at age 20, she requires a human to return her to her preferred spot on my big oak desk and is not shy about summoning assistance) and roamed the hall, complaining: "Ow! Nao! Uuuup! Nao!" then eeled through the left-ajar door to lecture me in person, breaking off to go look down the floor register and announce, quite distinctly, "UH-OH!" then make an abrupt exit. Disconcerting.
About the time I was rinsing my hair, I heard a stir and looked up. James Bond fans, now is your time: here I am in sudsy water, damp hair all piled up, as a grinning Tam enters carrying a laptop bag, announces in her best Scandahoovian accent, "Luuuke!" and proceeds to open it, remove gun parts and assemble an AR-15 in a under a minute! Fascinating, I had to admit, even as I pondered that I now had insight into how Archimedes' fellow-bathers felt.... ;)
Never a dull moment around here.
* If you leaned back and reached over your head when reclined in the tub, your fingertips would just reach a tiny wooden door set in the wall. If you opened that door, you'd be staring at the knife-switch-and-plug-fuses setup referred to earlier. And that was my first sight of it. Did you know you can sober up even when you are already sober to begin with? Truth.
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