Every night for a week things have been tense in our bathroom around 7.30pm.
Will it? Won’t it?
A always goes in first whilst I leave some clothes on, just in case there’s a shriek and I have to make a run for it and brave the cool outside air. It’s 17C out there which isn’t exactly cold, but not pleasant if all you’re wearing is a towel.
She emerges triumphant and I dive in, wondering if this time I’ll be reduced to a shivering wreck.
It’s not made showering an enjoyable activity. Normally the hot water would be a welcome friend, but the suspense that it might change personality at any second to nip icily at exposed flesh has robbed it of all its cosy pleasure.
The gas bottle which heats the water should have run out a week ago, but still the water remains hot, teasingly so, waiting for our guard to slip so it can have its bone-chilling fun. When it goes whoever isn’t mid-soaping at the time has to run outside of the house to the gas bottle cupboard and change over to the back up bottle whilst the unlucky victim’s goose-pimples pop like cava corks.
It could do the decent thing and run out whilst we’re cooking. It never, ever chooses to do that though. It’s always when one of us is in the shower.
Tonight’s the night, I just know it. I can feel it in my nervous bones.
The question is who will be the victim this time?