I make my way up the half landing like a mole through the half dark, the lower hall light throws indistinct shadows on the walls. The brass rickety knob of the bathroom door squeaks as I turn it and the guillotine lock turns up just enough to open the door. It slices down into its portal as I throw on the light. The overhead exhaust fan whirs into action. In the near winter air my hands talk to the chilled taps, the hot and cold together, a mild shiver sweeps me and the sense of being under the shouting stream already fills me. My hand plays in the downpour adjusting the hot and cold to get a starting point, then I’m in.

Pricks of water ping away at me, at my bullet proof skin, in this environment at least. Head under, like my hair and face is being wrapped in kling wrap and I reach to the right. A purple bottle of Andrew Collinge with a push down dispenser. Lotion forms a puddle in my palm, I smell a fake berry type of aroma on its way to my scalp where I move the mixture round in buffing circles, surprised that I still have a full head of hair. It seems greasy and gluey as I circulate. I let it sit while the soap does a world tour of my body, it is perfumed more like a woman and reminds me of her place. Now I tilt my head back beneath the flow and relish in the moment of this cascade that still flicks tendrils of pleasure. I weigh this up with the thought of turning the taps off and stepping out, The cold air will bite at any exposed part and the towel is small. It’ll have to be a military procedure, a commando raid of the toweling to get me rubbed down as quickly as possible…..