The joy of....bubble baths

Before O was born, I used to love to soak my cares away in a big, deep soapy bubblebath. Such a cliche, but it was the one thing that could clear my frazzled mind, ease niggly period pains and generally put my little world to rights.

After O was born, luxuriating in the bath was not generally an option, but I'd take my opportunities when they arose, even having the odd 3am bath when the nights were long and the baby was wailing. I'd like to say these nocturnal baths were as mentally soothing as before, but sadly I think it would have taken more than a bubblebath to sort my post-natal head out...


After the bombshell of breast cancer, I suppose I needed the power of the bubblebath more than ever. It is typical of the general crapola of cancer that even the pleasure of the soak was often denied to me. When I'd had my surgery, I couldn't submerge in the bath for ages as everything needed to heal and I had a nasty infection that took forever to clear up. For those with a strong stomach, I still have the super close-up photos that the district nurse took of my nasty wound. It is not for the faint-hearted. Moving swiftly on...

On the upside, during chemotherapy the healing powers of the bubbly bath really came into their own. The hideous bone aches were eased and the sickness abated whilst I lay like a zombie in the foam, quietly admiring my hairless parts (sorry TMI) and hoping that the need to shave my legs would last forever - yeah, right! I had never realised the liberation of dunking my head under the water though - there was one good thing about being a baldy.

Radiotherapy was not good for baths. I spent most of that month slathering my poor bosom in aqueous cream. It was not a good look, especially not with the granny bra, but I could have swum the channel no bother.

And now - long, lazy bubbly baths are once more the order of the day. I'd like to say that I light the scented candles, have the fluffy towels warming on the radiator and have glass of chilled white wine on the side of the bath as I wallow in decadence. Sadly, the reality is more mundane. Last night, I had a dinosaur's tail sticking into the back of my head, was sat on a Gogo and two plastic aliens fell on my head. This whole sorry display was witnessed by a plastic model of Top Gear's Stig, who silently glares at me through his visor from his position by the taps.

I wouldn't go back to those pre-O days of mindless soaking though - life is so much more fun with The Stig and his gang of plastic friends...