On Bathtime Battles and Being Cleopatra

It haunts my dreams both when I’m asleep and awake. It fills me with both rage and purpose, as I constantly seek chemical formulae to keep it at bay. I am talking of the purity of my bathroom enamel despoiled by that ring of dirt that will not go away. This is in spite of the friends and relatives who have given advice on how to vanquish it forever. Apparently, the only way never to have that ring around the bathtub is to wipe the scummy ring off the enamel with a cloth the moment you are finished bathing. Fine, if you are a practical creature who (a) prefers to shower anyway and (b) who has never entertained bath-time fantasies born of scented water, good soap and other ablutional indulgences. My favourite daydream is of being Cleopatra as I step from the tub and don my dressing robe – what better way to shatter it than wielding a scouring cloth doused with a dollop of elbow grease? I do not leave behind a colloquial tub of tepid water but a golden, Jacuzzi-like receptacle of asses’ milk or sparkling wine or some such exotic liquid. My fantasy lasts while I massage oil of roses (ergo body cream) into my poor, tired pelt, don clothing and breakfast on grapes and nectar (tea and toast, actually). Later, I do become more practical and focused as the mind switches into daytime mode – but by then it is too late. The ring has hardened into the familiar and stubborn beast, and the battle of the bath resumes.