Nothing in life can be compared to the British shower. Which essentially, entails one standing, shivering, at one end of a huge, white, porcelain bathtub. Then after pushing the little button to start the "shower," you find yourself under a trickle of water that alternates between being scorchingly hot, or freezing cold. I ask myself each and every day, just how is one meant to cleanse ones self with this pathetic, and potentially dangerous, drizzle of water?
Every morning, the alarm goes off, the D.E.B. gets up, goes and makes us our first cups of tea of the day. He brings the tea to the bedroom, and then, marches into the bathroom like a man on a mission, like a man about to relish the bliss of a "Power Shower." And I lie there thinking: "Bless him. He has no idea."
On weekends, when we can both lie in, the D.E.B. makes the tea, brings them up, crawls back into bed, and politely asks: "Would you like to shower first?" "Oh, no, you go ahead." I say, staving off the disappointment as long as I can.
There are times when I think instead of using the shower, I'd be better off to just go, stand out in the back garden, naked, and wait for it to rain.
