Domestic Gods

The Joy Of The French Half Bath

— and why I hate showering

Living in France has many advantages. It’s not England; the weather’s half decent; booze is cheap; the food doesn’t kill you; and I can wear red trousers without people thinking I’m a Marxist.

But the best thing — I’ve found — is the French half bath.

When we moved here three years ago, I was a little concerned about the cottage we were given as part of the job I was doing. The bedroom smelt of cod, the lounge had the character of a doctor’s waiting room, and the kitchen equipment amounted to no more than a few chipped plates, some blunt knives, and a deep fat fryer.

Then I went to have a look at the bathroom.

‘Oh my God,’ I yelled at my wife once I’d found the light switch that had been expertly taped up with sellotape. ‘There’s no bath!’

This was devastating. I could live without pans or cutlery, a TV, even food, but not a bath. I hate showering as I don’t see why one should stand up while washing. You don’t go to the cinema and stand up. You don’t have your hair cut standing up. You don’t sleep standing up. You don’t shit standing up.

Having a bath, is not merely an act of cleaning oneself. It’s a process of relaxation and atonement to rid myself of all the bullshit I’ve collected in my head during the day. If there is no bath, then in my mind, there’s no life. Did we come out of the oceans 500 million years ago, or did we simply step out of the shower?

Think about it.

The bath is the most important part of my day, more important than eating, drinking, fucking, or going to the toilet. I read in the bath, I smoke in the bath, I drink in the bath, I shave in the bath. In another universe, I’d probably live in the bath. Yes, I’d be a fish.

And the hotter the water, the better. The best temperature being the equivalent of a two-minute-old cup of tea. Cool enough to sip, but hot enough to scold your mouth on.

After fifteen minutes of deep immersion at this temperature, I feel myself cooking. Poaching myself like an egg ready to be served up with smoked salmon on a slice of toasted brown bread.

I’m not exaggerating either. I get some insane thrill from boiling myself like a lobster. It’s an addiction I’ve had since I can remember, and it shows no sign of abating. So the thought of going even a day without one was distressing.

‘But we have a bath,’ my wife said, pointing at the deformed basin that sat in the corner.

I looked at the stunted vessel. ‘That’s not a bath. That’s an amputation. It’s gone into battle and had its legs blown off. You expect me to sit in it? That would be sick.’

My wife shrugged. ‘Well, we’re here now– we’d better make do.’

Three long years later, and yes, I’m still here. Still having a bath each night in my stubby basin. Yes, it’s the sawn off runt of it’s fully grown cousin, but it has its advantages. What it lacks in length, it makes up for in height. You can fill the bath up and be totally submerged in boiling hot water.

It’s the same idea as the skyscrapers in New York. If you run out of space, build up. Ditto the French half bath.

So if you’re ever in France and your apartment/hotel room is advertised as “avec une baignoire demi”, don’t be put off. Fill it up, dip in, drink sweet Sancerre, and relax. It might be the best thing you’ve ever done. Trust me, I’m an expert.

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