So last night, I’m lying in the bath. The temperature is perfect. The bubbles are stacked high and Michael Buble’s music is more than satisfactory. My favorite plastic battleship is floating around entertainingly and life, for a minute, is just about bloody perfect.
I sink below the water, humming along to Michael’s version of “Fever,” only to emerge moments later and find Heidi sitting on the toilet. She wants a conversation. I don’t. We end up having a conversation about how we never have conversations any more. By the time it’s over, the bath is cold. The battleship has done an impression of the Titanic and either the batteries are finished on my CD player or Michael Buble has morphed into Barry White.
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