There are many places I could start, including the fact that I have just shared my bath with a battery-operated plastic octopus, which I’m worried looks like a dildo. (It was underwhelming – shoots round just under the surface of the water. I was hoping it would bob along the top.)
So maybe we start at the part where I was arriving home at about 9:30pm, and I was starving hungry, and my bladder muscles failed quite suddenly while I was in the lift, which does mean what you think it means.
The thing about my bladder muscles is, all of my muscles are spastic, none of them do what anyone expects them to, but my bladder, until today, it had always given me fair warning of impending doom, or at least I knew how to provoke it, and what to do if I wanted it to play nicely, and that didn’t always work, but mostly it was OK.
Game over, it seems. Or at least, I am now being trolled by my own body. In a whole new way.
Worse things have happened at sea. Worse things have happened to me today, to be honest.
Of course when your bladder muscles fail, you leg it to the nearest bathroom. For me, legging it anywhere is its own special kind of hell, so that was great. When I got there, I slammed my handbag on the beautiful ceramic tile floor, which I still love, because I only bought the flat six months ago, and the novelty has not worn off yet, and it was a full hour before I realised that, in slamming my handbag down like that, I had smashed my favourite everyday summer perfume, which I stowed there for ease of reach, and which only bought a month or two ago, as a very special treat.
Currently that perfume is soaking its way into the lining of my immensely practical work handbag, which is itself now embedded with shards of glass. I should make a joke about how I shouldn’t be let out of the house without encasing myself and all my belongings in plastic, but I’m not yet past the bit where I want to sit down and weep.
Perfume is not important, I do know that.
The thing about your bladder muscles failing without anything in the way of warning, is that you do have to have a bath pretty much immediately, which is never a bad thing.
So finally – finally! -I pulled out the Guardian of the Forest bath bomb which I have been carrying round with me on my dubious travels, and I waited for the click in my brain. Guardian of the Forest, in all its mossy, deciduous decadence, is the bath bomb which re-ignited my Lush obsession last year, when I happened to pick one up from Oxford Street last year, only because it smelt like nothing else in the shop, and I was sick of all the sugary, candy scents.
That first time, I threw it in the bath with me, and never really wanted to get out again, and really did feel like I was bathing in a forest stream, and discovered that that felt like a surprisingly good thing, and in my memory of that bath, I was there for at least two hours, maybe three, and I have never been so relaxed.
Every Guardian of the Forest I have used since has been an attempt to re-create that sensation, followed by a slightly crushing disappointment when I failed, even tho I know no other bath will ever be as good again.
I have had a dud one before. I have also had another glorious one. It almost certainly depends on my mood. This one had lost its scent a bit. I think, probably, you should not leave poorly conserved bath bombs languishing at the bottom of your overnight bag.
The click never came. I am still waiting for the click. My brain, it has no off switch, and I can’t really blame a bath bomb for that.