I love my Sunday Bath. Sundays as a whole are pretty disappointing I find, especially since Monarch Of The Glen finished, but my Sunday Bath just about rescues it from the depressing pit Sunday otherwise is. During the week I'm a showers man: far too busy for all that lying around in baths nonsense. Well, OK, not strictly true, more a case of poor organisation and slap dash timekeeping on my part than actual business to attend to per se, but nonetheless baths are limited to my Sunday.
My weekly wallow is a special time, but every now and again it is less than satisfying: somehow it gets spoilt. As was the case this weekend. I had just got settled and was tuning my ears into those peculiar underwater acoustics one's bath does so well when my bladder, seemingly having its memory prompted by all this fluid splashing about in its immediate surroundings, started demanding that it be emptied. Well, I'm fully aware that all you readers are fine upstanding citizens to a man, so I'm sure like me you never under any circumstances piss in the bath (I consider it something akin to going on a running machine, doughnut in one hand and fag in the other). But of course, then one is posed with the strain placed on the prostate should one remain prone (and, of course, continuing to resist contaminating oneself), or the sheer awfulness of leaving a good bath halfway through. In this case, my prostate drew the short straw.
I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Despite everything, I told myself, I am enjoying my Sunday Bath. And then? Then I started to hear my phone ring. Typical: I go for days without any bugger calling me, and then as soon as I step in the bath? I was expecting work to call me at some stage and it wasn't really a call I should miss, but I remained resolute. It was my Sunday Bath after all. Soon they rang off. But of course, it can't be that simple. My answerphone service repeatedly phones me after someone has left a message until I listen to it. And so, my phone began ringing, and ringing, over, and over.
Damn it. I submerged myself, determined to block out a world so heartless that it would disturb a man's Sunday Bath. Of course, I wasn't factoring in The Voices. Sure enough, in that echoey underwater solace, they came out to play.
"Jeez Huw, how much do you need a piss right now?"
"You really should check what that call was about, eh?"
"Where'd all the bubbles go anyway?"
"Can you really hold that in any longer? I mean, really?"
"They left a message, it must have been pretty important."
"You're bursting aren't you?"
"Who'd be calling you, you loser?"
"Hey, listen to this! 'Psssssssss, splash!!!! Tinkle! Drip Drip.... Ahhhhhhh....'..."
"Hoots! When is a new series of Monarch of the Glen going to start, laddy?"
"Wee Wee Wee Wee Wee Wee Wee Wee Wee!"
Oh alright you bastards, I cursed, I'm getting out.
I'll admit, going to the potty felt good, but once I'd trundled downstairs and picked up my phone I saw the call was from my mother.
Unngaaaah, Muuuuum, I teenaged to myself, Leave me alone!
I listened to the message.
"Huw, it's your Mother," spake Mother. "I was hoping to get hold of you, to see how you are. Seeing as you never call."
Unnngaaah, stop nagging meeeee!
"So, if you could please call us. Or email us. Or.... Or we'll have to start reading your blog."
Aiiiieeee! Don't do that!!! I write all sorts of weird shit in there! OK, OK, I'll call you... Jeez!
Go UK! Woooooo!
5 weeks ago