Agnes vs The Shower

I have found a new mortal enemy. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that the shower at Mark’s parents’ place is trying to kill me. Every morning the bathroom turns into a martial arts movie with me starring as the foolhardy bandit who steps in the way and the shower playing the role of the unassuming hero who beats the shit out of me.

The daily routine goes a little like this: I do a mad semi-nude dash for the bathroom hoping that the towel I’ve carelessly thrown around myself doesn’t somehow flip off just as a member of Mark’s family wanders into the corridor. When I get to the bathroom I do a little dance of triumph and (with just a touch of arrogance) look at the shower and think: “I can take you on, you’re just a shower”. And then it goes into some sort of spinning hook kick and before I know it I’m plastered to the tiles on the far wall, reaching my hand for the off tap and wondering who accidentally put a heavy-duty blast nozzle on the end of the shower.

Several minutes into the exercise and aware that I’ve already got acute internal bleeding, I give into desperation and do my best commando-crawl towards the tap. The water beats me down with the force of an industrial jackhammer and I can hear the hints of a whispered punchline “showing off is the fool's idea of glory” (Hey, that’s Bruce Lee’s line!). I spare a little bit of concentration to the thought that I might not have locked the bathroom door, but I block out images of Mark’s parents walking in on my bare, bruised cheeks and focus on flicking the tap. And I do. And it’s sweet. I celebrate with a triumphant dance. Then I cough up my spleen.