Despite the proverb, I suspect my bathroom fetishes might be a step away from spirituality. No matter how sweay with exertion or soaked from the rain or covered in mud we are when we arrive at our lodgings, a hot bath or shower transforms us. Civilisation apparently resides in a pair of clean socks. The act of propping a pillow to balance my sliver of mirror and pluck my eyebrows returns me to the ranks of femininity. When we take a stop-over in a city, the first priority is to find a laundrette where we can sit among grandmothers and students, contentedly folding our tumbled clothes.
I'm writing this after a luxurious bath in a large claw-footed tub, in a slate-grey, muslin-fringed bathroom in a beautiful little B and B in Vascoeuil. The owner, her six-year-old daughter, two dogs and three cats greeted us, served us juice and macaroons and left us to our frothy pleasures. I contemplate having a leg wax in Beauvais. Is this the point at which the devil breaks through?
10 February 2008
I'm writing this after a luxurious bath in a large claw-footed tub, in a slate-grey, muslin-fringed bathroom in a beautiful little B and B in Vascoeuil. The owner, her six-year-old daughter, two dogs and three cats greeted us, served us juice and macaroons and left us to our frothy pleasures. I contemplate having a leg wax in Beauvais. Is this the point at which the devil breaks through?
10 February 2008
No comments:
Post a Comment