If only our bath looked like the one in the picture. Military accommodation is more circa 1978/79 – the Winter of Discontent-ware – not avocado but poo brown and cheap.
Anyway, the other day I knew Si was coming home midweek to spend a rare night with me so I got the kids to bed early (and they actually went to sleep), had a bath (I know), put oatmeal on my face, pumiced my feet, shaved my legs, pruned my lady garden, and did all the stuff mothers never have time for anymore to make me look less circa 1978 than my bathroom. I massaged my body with almond oil and found a silky negligee I hadn’t seen for seven years and popped it on. I was up for a very early night.
Si unlocks the front door and walks in, muddy and still dressed in camouflage. He jogs up the stairs and is sad he’s missed story time but is very pleased to see me in my slutty negligee, my hair carefully tousled, with just a hint of red lipstick.
He starts taking his clothes off in a hurry. “I just need to jump in the bath, I’ve got sweaty balls after the live firing exercise on Salisbury Plain.”
“You were firing your balls?”
“No, but you can standby to receive some nut-juice tonight, love, ” he says adopting his an ancestral Yorkshire accent, with all the charm of the North to boot.
“Your powers of seduction know no bounds,” I say huskily. I’ve had that cold that’s been going around. I give my nose a rub and then blow it noisily.
Si does a little-naked dance shaking his willy in alternate circles. It’s like snake charming on speed. He flexes ‘his guns’ (biceps) and – I know what’s coming next… “These swans need feeding,” he says as he makes beaks out of his hands so he arms look, not so much like swans but maybe duck-billed platypuses. His kisses each of his impressive biceps and runs into the bathroom. I hear a splosh and that’s when I suddenly start stuttering, “No. Wait. No.”
I creep into the bathroom to see Si reemerge from under my bath water – “ah that’s better,” he says but it doesn’t look that way because his whole body is now covered in my hairy trimmings and he has turned into a werewolf. He peeps down at his Jack Nicholson chest and the hot romantic mood that we had going changes. “Have you been shaving your bits in the bath again?”
“No.” I say weakly.