It’s our first morning in our short-term let, a one-bedroom flat in a converted Victorian townhouse halfway between Notting Hill Gate and Bayswater.
We took our landlady somewhat by surprise by offering to move in so quickly, and, as a result, the apartment is missing certain luxuries, like curtains on the windows and the shower. But we are happy just to have some place to put our belongings for the next six weeks. And thanks to the bright sunlight pouring in through the uncurtained windows, I wake up refreshed, and in sync with the time zone. I turn on the hot water heater, and head for the shower.
But novice that I am in the world of hot-water heaters, I do not realize until I feel the bracingly cold water flowing out of the faucet that I should probably have turned the heater on an hour ago. Still, a cold shower will still be refreshing. In the absence of a shower curtain, I want to be careful not to get water on the brand new hardwood floors, so I angle the shower head towards the wall and turn it on.
A few drops of cold water dribble vaguely out.
With a little experimentation, I discover the shower head will function if I pull it off the wall and hold it at about waist level. The problem, of course, is that half of my body occurs above waist level. I manage to wash myself off by performing an elaborate series of bends and twists, made more complex by the fact that I must keep the shower head safely pointed away from that new hardwood floor at all times.
When it’s done, I feel strangely exhilarated, much as I gather Lauren does after one of her yoga classes. But perhaps that pleasant tingling of my skin is just a side effect of the cold water.
As Lauren heads into the bathroom, I warn her about the great lengths to which she will have to go. Ten minutes later, when she emerges from the shower, she tells me her solution: fill up the bathtub, sit comfortably down in it, and use the shower head to wash yourself off. Now that she mentions it, I have seen that very thing done in old movies, from the period in which science had discovered indoor plumbing and sound, but hadn’t yet gotten around to water pressure and color. I believe the proper procedure is to sing loudly and off-key while you scrub yourself with a loofah, until a group of mischievous neighborhood waifs burst in through the door in search of their dog, who turns out to have been hidden under the soap bubbles all along.?