Splosh

It's been a long day. I did Toddler Group this morning, had a couple of hours at home to deal with e-mails from editors, and went out to Leeds for a lesson from Jane, my voice coach. (She's brilliant, by the way.) I did the shopping in Leeds (divided the journey there and back between reading and writing, trudged home, and dealt with yet more e-mails, and after this I'm going for a lovely hot bath.

I know, before you say it. I know that we're supposed to take showers, not baths. I try not to waste water. I put cooking water on the garden, and when it's dry in summer (some chance this year) I don't send all my bathwater swirling dsown the plughole, I take bucketsful out to water on the plants. They don't seem to mind if it takes soapy.

But a bath is not just to do with getting clean. A bath is to do with soaking, sinking back in kind hot water. Bathwater loves you! It knows when you've had a hard day. It wraps around you, warms you all the way through, and floats all your aches and tension away. It almost sings to you. Even while it's still pouring from the tap it's reminding you to have a fluffy towel ready, and some special soap/talc/body lotion/bath bombs/oil/plastic yellow ducks, whatever it is that blesses your bathtime.

When I'm in the bath, storylines sort themselves out and get unknotted. I can see what's gone wrong with a story, and where, and what to do about it. New ideas pop up like bath fizzers. I can't afford a weekend at a luxury health spa, but who cares, when I can be pampered and inspired by half an hour in a hot bath?

LYS shares my enthusasim for baths. I may have to queue.