Virtually every plumber that comes round my flat says “If you like I could take those old taps out. I could replace them with a nice shiny new mixer tap.” It’s because the taps in my bath are beautiful, and they’re greedy. “New lamps for old.” They usually change their minds when I say I know they’re worth a bit.


The water pressure is shitawful though, but I’m happy to wait 45 minutes for a bath to fill. And with brand new mixers it would be much the same in terms of pressure. I’m top floor in an old block.

I have to be careful when I’m staying somewhere with actual pressure as I could flood a small village in the time it takes to fill my tub. But hell, I can wait for a good soak.

There are 5.5 people sleeping in my flat tonight. 2 in the living room. 2 in Brian’s room. 1 and a half in my room. Despite this, I reckon I’m going to lie in here for a good 45 minutes until I’m a human raisin. I’ve checked with them. None of them have the runs. I’ve got four candles (“Fork ‘andles?, says Ronnie Corbett). I’ve got a glass of wine. I’m playing Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E minor. It’s practice for my forthcoming career as a 1970’s Bond villain. It’s hard writing on a steamy phone, but I’ve written in stranger circumstances.

It’s not unusual for my flat to be full like this. Nor is it unusual for me to lie in my bath for bloody ages. I once conducted an exorcism on myself in this bath and flushed the fucking thing down the plughole. Now I just exorcise the day in it, stew and renew. I’ll try to sleep like a baby, but Pickle has taken to using me as a trampoline at about 4am so it’ll be literally like a baby – I’ll wake up shouting. I might have to lock her out, but then she turns up outside the door when I go for my morning pee and rebukes my toes with her claws. She knows I’m warm, there’s only one of me, and I’m a pushover. She just hates the toes – the toes that only go down the roads I’ve chosen. She’d bite them off and replace them if she could.

Speaking of toes, mine are a little less like bricks now I’ve been in here a while and the calluses have soaked through. I suppose I should go through the formality of rubbing some sort of abrasive substance all over myself. Technically that’s what baths are for.

I’ve got no soap or shower gel, of course. So it’s either sink-unblocker – which might be a little strong even for these toes, or shampoo – which is a perfectly serviceable body wash and leaves one smelling delightful. “SHAMPOO! Do you need washing? Is your hair so far receded as to make it almost comical to refer to it as hair?? Never fear, you can still BUY SHAMPOO so you too can do the washing that you do. Shampoo. Not just for hair, it’s for sluicing you too!” etc

What will I advertise tomorrow, kids? Stay tuned! It could be anything. “SNOT! Have you GOT SNOT? Or have you forgot? Get more snot. Or you’ll be filled with regrot! What?”

I keep switching the actual banner adverts attached to this blog on and off. There’s a setting now I’ve paid for the blog. What do you think of them? Do they piss you off, those adverts, or are they just part of life these days?

I’m planning on leaving them on for a clear month so I can report on the revenue they generate. Last time I looked it was up to 0.42p. I’m curious to see what it comes to in a month. I’ll let you know, and then probably switch them off again for good. Unless it’s loads. 🙂

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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