While I was enjoying my organic toasted mozzarella and ciabatta in Greenwich earlier today, my phone rang. The ring tone, in case you should be interested, is a nice jazz version of “Tiger Rag”.
The caller was one of the council officers who came to see us on Tuesday about our forthcoming refurbishment. The message was as simple as it was stark: “I don’t know who said you could have it but the wet room is a no go.”
Thus the story ends and the wet room retreats forever into the realms of myth and make-believe. On the other hand, we have been told that if we wish to buy additional fittings for the kitchen and bathroom, they will be happy to install them for us free of charge. Tigger already has a list in her mind of dish-racks, heated towel rails, bathroom cabinets with lights…
All I have a vision of is folding myself up every time I take a bath. Still, it could be worse (I tell myself). We could have just a tin bath hanging behind the kitchen door like some of our neighbours in the days of my youth. We often forget that so many of the things we take for granted these days were innovations only a few decades ago, if that.
“Upstairs” is being refurbished at present. I came home to find their old bath in the front garden. I nearly said to the workmen “I see you are taking a bath” but thought better of it. My students once said to me “Your jokes are so bad they’re sometimes funny.”