Now that the temperature has been in the roaring 40s the heat’s on again in my household—for a spa bath.
It was when our friends got their spa bath that I knew we had slipped at couple of rungs down the soapy ladder of society.
Gone was the momentary advantage we had gained with our redecorated bathroom; the shower curtain motif of feeding this, the non-liquefying soap holders; the terrazzo and the toothbrush racks: all this was as nothing.
For who could compete with the frothing frenzy of the spa, encasing the bather in a sizzling seething excitement of bubbles, doing wonderful things to all the wonderful things?
Even a grandmother had bathed in it, we were told, and had emerged at spa-spangled nanna.
We accepted the invitation to view the wonder only with the greatest reluctance.
I felt our reconditioned bathroom on which the wife had placed her status hopes still needed our support. We weren’t washed up yet.
We were received by our hostess in a high state of excitement. We were told her husband was al- ready in the spa bath to give a demonstration, as indeed he was, hairy and moist, his nose as wet as a puppy’s while around him seethed this fashionable maelstrom like an aquatic Krakatoa.
Vivacious
There was vivacity about the bath, if you could imagine anything vivacious with our host like some immobile streaker caught in the Victoria Square fountain.
Personally, I am not one for zest in baths. I’m more of a backwaters bather, content to sit among the used suds and discoloured water like an old Murray carp that’s had a murky day.
An occasional splash to show I am still breathing, a desultory rub of the face washer, a slow, slothful action with the cake of soap, a few bubbles around the buttocks and that’s about as far as my manoeuvring goes.
But here it was all happening Finally, we got our host to leave his bath after our discreet retirement and he appeared at tea full of cleanliness and even a slight touch of godliness.
You’ll never be without a spa once you have one, he said rather mysteriously; a statement which seems obvious enough when you come to examine it
My wife, of course, began getting spas in her eyes but I threw cold water on the idea immediately.
We would stick with convention, I said. Any way, I was already doing two days a week in the plumber’s garden to help pay for our bathroom.
We went home but no before our host began un dressing again to get back in the spa.
It came as no surprise when we received next day a call from our hostess to come over as her husband’s behaviour was a little worrying.
He was where you’d expect. In the spa, of course.
His wife was sitting beside him urging him to come out but it had no effect.
Already she was feeding him by throwing him fish and when we arrived he began barking and clapping his hands and when we threw him a ball he immediately balanced it on his nose.
Sparring
“Here’s Max, your old sparring partner” our hostess said in what could only be described as a desperately unhappy pun.
Since then their spa bath has been rarely empty and the husband remains anything but liquid asset.
His family has tried Marineland but the dolphins have a closed shop down there.
And so it goes.
So, while I know many neighbours who are happy with their spa baths, I must say I remain loyal to obsolescence.
I shall go back and loll in the muddy shallows. No froth or aquatic madness there. So fizz off, why don’t you?
Heavy and obtuse, shall remain wallowing in my old bath, a hippochondriac if you like but comforted by the knowledge that strange things can happen when you hitch your wagon to a spa.
Max Fatchen