It’s not that I begrudge my fellow man earning a decent living. It’s not even that I’m still furious with The Cowboys (TM) for conning me in every possible way to get me to buy the shoebox in the ghetto and then running off into the sunset with my money, emitting hyena-like shrieks of pure evil. It’s the fact that my new and blameless plumber wears Hugo Boss jeans, drives a Mercedes, and has just presented me with a quote with far more zeros on it than I had expected. And I have no shower.
We have always been bathless (apologies to all my lovely friends who bought me fancy pants bath oils and lotions for my birthday. I’ll try not to ply you with so much wine next time you’re over so perhaps you’ll notice), but we took a great deal of comfort from our shower. I did a lot of thinking under it in the mornings, while my mind was gently lifting itself out of dreamland, free from the constraints of rational daytime thought. It helped set me up for the day and woke me up like nothing else could. We also made good use of the shower at other times (no, not like that).
Living in a studio flat means that the bathroom (oh, okay, the loo-with-a-shower-hanging-over-it room) is the only place you can go to get away from it all. Had a row and want to flounce off in a dramatic huff? Need some thinking time? Feeling bloated? You head straight for the only space with a door in the flat. As a result, I and my other half have never been cleaner. We were positively squeaky. That is, until Sunday.
Since then it’s been like The Poseidon Adventure round ours. And the couple living below isn’t too chuffed with us either. So now we are washing at work (not fun) and counting our pennies to work out when we can afford to get the damn thing fixed.
And my new plumber? Well, rumour has it he’s planning his next shopping trip.
Do you think there’s time to retrain?