I am starting to think I might just not be cut out for baths.
So, obviously we had the whole, never to be forgotten (and seen by 30 million people – FML) Original Source debacle. Which, as many of you have kindly contacted me to point out, appears to have been plagiarised by some random person. Still, as the gutter press prove day in day out, original content is sorely overrated 😉
Post Original Source incident, that particular bottle of shower gel has made it out of my bathroom, never to return, allowing my front bottom to relax when it comes to my daily ablutions.
But then someone bought me a bath bomb.
I mean, is it just me? Does anyone else really not get bath bombs?
Really, the clue should be in their name. Anything branding itself as a highly explosive device is unlikely to be enhancing a relaxing bathing experience.
I’m not going to lie. I was very excited when I got this bath bomb. It looked beautiful. All pink and glittery.
This was my first error, in retrospect. To think that glitter had any part to play in a process designed to get oneself CLEAN.
So, I dropped it in the water. And it fizzed. FIZZED. Like one of those chemical reactions you would get to do in Year 9 double science.
Again. I’m not sure why I was still thinking that one would want to allow something which is behaving like lithium into close contact with one’s nether regions, but then such is the power of persuasive PR.
Once it has finished its fizzing, you are able to get into the bath. And, I’ll be honest. The bath bomb itself had looked beautiful. Pink, luminescent, radiant.
My bath, by contrast, looked like someone had taken a glittery shit in it.
Gingerly, I got into my glittery murky bath.
And quickly realised three things:
# I do not like bath bombs
# My front bottom does not like bath bombs
# I would be sporting glittery labia for fucking WEEKS
Realising I probably had only minutes to avoid a bulk purchase of Canesten, I got out and headed to the shower to undertake damage limitation.
And discovered that glitter does not come off. EVER.
After an intense period of largely fruitless scrubbing, I returned to my bathroom and emptied the bath.
I then spent a further thirty minutes equally fruitlessly scrubbing my bath to remove the glittery shit stains.
By the time the whole disastrous experience was over I had sweated so much I needed another shower, had apologised to my front bottom at least fifteen times…and had gained a pound in weight from all the extra glitter I was now sporting.
I really do not get bath bombs.