but I don’t know many of them.”

On this, I completely agree with Sylvia Plath. No discussion just unanimously supportive.

Not having a bath in my own apartment, I have carefully cultivated some friendships where a desperate phone call to use the bath is, if not understood, at least tolerated. So on occaison I am allowed to observe the sacred ritual of bathing producing a marvel of deep relaxation.

Being known for this proclivity, my bath-owning friends will leave me with their keys whenever they go away.. This free-access to a bath is a heady invitation which I can never resist. And so during the holidays, I found myself drawing a bath at a friends place: eagerly mixing my bubble bath and bath salts to perfection (It does not do, to stew myself in something that smells like a puddle), carefully lighting tea light candles whilst arranging a nice chilled glass of white wine and some fresh strawberries in easy reach. Perfection, I’m almost purring just thinking about it…

Well it would have been if not for my friends beloved parrot.

I was just begining to unwind when suddenly a shill little voice screeched, “What are you doing?” “Hey, what are you doing?” then wolf whistling with zest. It’s more than a little disconcerting… Stubbornly clinging to the idea I could continue my bath, I was sure the parrot purged his system of the need to say anything further. I was certainly not going to encourange, respond or in any way engage with him at the expense of my bath. How wrong I can be. I was treated to several renditions of the “what are you doing?” sequence then the wolf whistle with bonus blood curdling screech at irregular intervals… There was only one way a hot bath could cure this for me, but quite frankly I just don’t have it in me to be cruel to an animal.

And so, I was thwarted by a 3 inch feather-duster with no sense of privacy and a tradesman’s vocabulary.