by Jennifer Stakes
Personally, I blame all that Home Beautiful / How Pretty is your House nonsense. Look where it’s got them: one gorgeous wallowing hole but no hot water. Even the hippopottomi of the great green greasy Limpopo don’t shiver their bits off when they have a soak. Sure, the hippos don’t have marble-effect tiles, gold taps or a French bidet, but look how happy they are in their gloopy, oozing mud-fest.
I was so furious that if I’d had a clock down here in my gloomy sub-tub home I would have been watching the minutes with my eight eyes until Mrs. Selfish tried to have her evening bath.
A waft of scent: a trickle of oil runs into the bath above my head, the sound amplified by the empty space.
Thunder: the water falls from the taps. Then...
“John! There’s no hot water!”
Footsteps. The creak of the airing cupboard door. Confused voices.
Yes, everything seems to be working, doesn’t it? But there’s just one thing you forgot when you remodelled your bathroom: you didn’t ask me. You’re up in the dock and you’ve been sentenced: GUILTY.
Days pass. Baffled plumbers come and go.
Then, a small voice. “Hello? Hello? You’re very scary but I’ve got a new penguin that floats and I’d really like to play with him in the bath. If I leave him here by your door until tomorrow maybe you can make friends? Me and Penguin are sorry about your home. We liked it better before anyway.”
Oh, even my old, dark, poisoned heart can melt.
Copyright © 2009 by Jennifer Stakes