The depth of my insanity

I have a confession to make. And just warning all of the romantics, this might throw you straight off your stools. Wham! You’ll be on the ground before you can even think of throwing rose petals to soften your landing.

I think bathtubs – including those corner spa things you find in honeymoon hotel suites – are awful. So awful, in fact, that I’d prefer for a guy to fart me a little tune in bed than to ask me to get into a bathtub which has previously been occupied by anonymous arses.

Because that’s what it is. I’m well aware that mere hours before I got there, the hairy arse of a giant sweaty man (or woman) has rubbed itself all over every bathtub surface and now I’m about to cover it up with warm water and sit in it. And you know what happens in warm water right? Bad things.

This makes things awkward for Mark because he’s a normal human being, which means he appreciates being submerged in scented, bubbly warm water. It’s relaxing and comfortable, and there is no higher compliment than to be comfortable. Not to Mark. According to him comfort is the bar by which all things should be measured – clothes, chairs, bathtubs...if Mark had his way we’d all be wearing moo-moos.

Because of this, all of our more romantic trysts are marred by The Bathroom Scene. That is the process whereby we inspect our room and, upon discovering that it has a bathtub, engage our alternate personalities. Mark throws his shirt over his head and does laps around the room shouting about comfort, while I curl up in a ball, find a suitably dark corner and rock back and forth mumbling about butt germs. They are the healthy foundations upon which our relationship is built.

So you can imagine my horror and Mark’s complete euphoria when we discovered that our romantic Amsterdam houseboat* not only had a bathtub, but a little tray thingie-ma-bob which could hold two wine glasses and a bottle for top-ups. Alcohol without having to leave the bathtub? SO MUCH COMFORT! And we had two hours before Luke and Bec would arrive.

So yes, no amount of whimpering was getting me out of this one. Anyway I just wanted to share that story because if Mark ever tries to mar my good name with tales of how I steal the blanket and roll him off the bed, you can remind him about the butt germ bath. Also I couldn’t sleep. You know, because of the nightmares.

* We shared this houseboat with Mark’s brother and his girlfriend. The reason why we got a romantic one was because the others were taken.