Hydro literacy

The world divides, quite neatly, into three groups based on their attitudes towards reading in the bath.

Firstly, there is the group that enjoys reading in the bath.
Secondly there is the group that enjoys the idea of reading in the bath, and thirdly, and lastly, there is the group that thinks that a bath is solely a way of getting clean.

Let us take it as axiomatic that we can ignore and dismiss the last group as being composed of unimaginative poltroons of a baser sort and fellows unworthy even of contempt. As Shakespeare so tellingly almost wrote in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ “The man that hath no bath reading in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet volumes, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.”

The members of the first group are the masters of the universe. They have surmounted all the obstacles to literary perusal while immersed and have become adept at such mysteries as regulating the temperature of the water by big toe adjustment of the tap; moderating the suds level so that it does not threaten to deckle edge the book; maintaining a dry hand to ensure the preservation of the book; never resting the book on damp flesh, and always having a water free resting place for the volume when actually deciding to wash (optional).

I place myself firmly in the second group: the one which enjoys the idea of reading in the bath. I even go to the extent of finding a book I might read while soaking myself and making sure the towel is near so that dry hand will handle the precious volume, but it never works out. I have an inordinate fear of the hundred page wrinkle.

I dislike anything which detracts from the virgin page of print. I detest the American habit of augmenting the page numbers with decoration, or producing some sort of design feature on the top of the page. Indeed, I dislike page numbers altogether. When reading a novel for the first time you should use a book mark and there should be a way in which all page numbers could be removed or suppressed. After the book has been read then there should be some sort of process which turns the numbers on, so that discussion of the book can be made easier by reference to specific numbered locations for textual evidence.

With this sort of puritan fastidiousness you can imagine that an ink blot on the edge of the volume which squats on page after page until the blot has worked itself out is torture to me. A rip or a ruffle in the pages is irritation and a water wrinkle which creates ridges and valleys for letters and words is an intolerable invasion into my suspension of disbelief as I try to commune with the pure text. With this neurosis waiting to pounce on any blemish in the text, you can understand my reluctance to risk the disfigurement of the book by water.

But I like the idea of reading in the bath so much that I sometimes spend an inordinate amount of time searching for the appropriate volume to accompany the immersion! You never know; the moment might arise when The Read becomes a possibility; and without The Book, The Read could never occur. It is a gentle sort of literary Catch-22 situation.

These thoughts came to me as I hunted around in my depleted stock of books (my library being in the commodious pallets of Messrs Pickford in storage) for a volume to accompany my soak after my less than convincing ‘help’ given to Richard and Sue as they packed the van with another load of furniture and other oddments to take to France.

Most of my energy was obviously given over to my rigorous system of cough training which has been the focus of my physical exertions for the last few weeks. The world class racking coughs which I am producing are not mere vocal arabesques which can be bestowed on a germ filled world without considerable preparation, delivery and professional follow through. You know if a cough has achieved an international star rating by the extent of complete physical prostration which is its aftermath. Devotion to one’s art obviously precludes total participation in less demanding activities like loading a van.

As I type this, Sue and Richard should be at the boat and are, I hope, settling down to a decent meal on board, secure in the knowledge that the cuisine is French!

It will be interesting to see how their odyssey to sell up and get out goes. I do not envy them the depersonalisation of their home: an essential element in the presentation to future buyers. The advice to ‘de-clutter’ will start to seem like an insult, then a threat, then an impossible dream, then a moral imperative, then like a glorious release. If I have any advice to give (and believe me I gave plenty!) then it can all be compressed into one clear mantra: “You always need a bigger skip than you thought.” They have happy times ahead!

My happy times over the next two days are confined to visits to the dentist and the optician.

Happy days indeed.