On bathing

It may be that it's winter again, it may be that the curtain-less French telephone shower (did I forget to warn you about that, o unsuspecting Christmas guests?) is starting to get on my nerves, or it may be a flash of self-satisfaction and/or hypocrisy at Australia finally ratifying the Kyoto Protocol. I have been fantasising about having a nice hot bath.

Off with the pet human to Morocco tomorrow where I fully intend to indulge in a hippo hammam, but my thoughts are strangely starting to turn back to Australia with its hot summer temperatures, chronic water shortages, and newly-confirmed status as the most energy-hungry nation per capita in the world.

In short, I wish to locate and clean a bathtub of the sort used as cattle troughs in dry paddocks, place it at a suitably commanding viewpoint, fill with water the night before and light a fire of red gum logs or other rare native hardwood underneath. The idea is that the next day the water is just right, and there are are just enough coals to keep the water hot. The bath is to be taken with a bottle of red wine and preferably the company of a like-minded, bath-loving, château-owning hippoess. Bathing can occur both by day, with a good book, and by night, as clouds of steam waft down the hill, and wisps of smoke drift upwards, engendering that authentic country smell native to toasted marshmallows and after-pub overcoats.

[Dsclaimer: I must thank the gentleman in the silly hat for kindly sending me the CAD-created rubber duck appearing above, and apologise if any of my environmental statements end up jeopardising his career as an architect.]