In our household Tuesday is ‘bath day’.
It might seem a little archaic to only bathe once a week, but I assure you we’re well-seasoned practitioners of the two minute shower which covers us for most muck emergencies and the general upkeep of an acceptable level of personal hygeine.
Left down to me I’d take a piping hot, bubble filled, oil enriched bath over performing the ‘holy crap this is chilly’ in-shower jitterbug any day – especially with an equally pissed off toddler clawing at my knees. Unfortunately our un-insulated boiler, money guzzling electricity meter and the sorry state of my bank account have the final word on this particular issue.
I often get asked why I chose to move, not only 230 miles away from my immediate family, but into a flat without heating and where even the act of washing my child entails much more than simply whacking on the immersion and giving it fifteen (it’s a boiled kettle relay situation to bolster up our pitiful hot water supply).
The answer is twofold.
Firstly, I didn’t have much choice in the move – as well as being a full time mum I’m also a final year MA student at The University of Edinburgh. Although incredibly forthcoming with giving me maternity leave for these two years past, it was made expressly clear that returning in the 2013/14 semester was very much my ‘last chance saloon’.
Secondly, this flat is the shit.
Ok, so it may be wanting of certain luxuries but it’s three doors down from his nursery, ten minutes either way to the city centre or the beach, backs onto one of the biggest ‘bits of green’ in the surrounding area, is on the ground floor of a buggy friendly close and has a garden.
In rarity it’s the accommodation equivalent of rocking horse plop.
It’s also fairly easy on the eyes.
That in mind, what I would do with £20,000 is a complete no-brainer – I would use it as part deposit, part cash incentive to buy the flat off my landlord.
Whether we would hold anything back for practical jobs like putting in central heating is still to be decided, I find myself growing increasingly fond of bath day.
The anticipation, the ceremony, the silent mantra of ‘Frank, please don’t piss in the water, mummy needs to get in next’…
Furthermore as the debate about fracking and one hundred years of fuel security ramps up to fifth gear, our little contribution to conservation (initially unwilling though it was) certainly gives me a glow of self satisfaction.
Hopefully that will be enough to keep me warm as I enjoy yet another tepid soak.
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