I hate showers. I’ve mentioned this before but I’ve managed to live my life largely avoiding them with an occasional one as a necessity here and there.

Until recently. We moved out of our gorgeously renovated Victorian villa with its beautiful bath, grey matt tiles, clean grout and effective shower into somewhere that’s another ‘project’ with a bathroom that needs immediate attention. Only we haven’t been able to give it immediate attention and I have spent the last seven weeks having to have showers.

Things came to a head two days ago when I was in the shower on cold damp day. Throughout the summer things had been fine(ish) but, with the weather taking a turn for the cooler, I was not happy to be standing in an avocado green bath surrounded by mould with a leaky shower for company.

I called my husband and asked him for a t-towel. “What d’you need that for?” he asked. I explained it was to wrap around the lowest loop of the shower hose which was channelling the cold water pouring from inside the shower unit causing it to spatter on my legs. Thus, the top half of my body was getting soaked in relatively balmy water and bottom half was undergoing some kind of Arctic water torture.

The t-towel reduced the spatter somewhat but two minutes later with conditioner on my hair and a half-shaved leg the whole thing cut out. I guess that water pouring out had not been a good sign.

After some screaming and some yelling, my husband realised the electrics had tripped and flow was restored for enough time to wash off my hair and rinse my leg.

So where does that leave us? A flannel wash? A bucket in the garden? Or a panicked phone call to the nearest plumber?

My husband wants to swap shower over himself. The kids  look at us like they hate us for making them leave their lovely old house.

Me? I’m off to my sister’s for the weekend. She’s got a bath.