When the water ran out of the hotel bath, I made a genius discovery
Jem Clarke is in his very, very early fifties, is five foot zero inches tall and has never left the family home in Cleethorpes, which he shares with his parents…
My mother and I – while often at war – have much in common.
We both live at the same address. We both sponge money off the same 88-year-old man. And we both have completely messed up body-washing routines. Specifically, my mother can no longer lie in a bath, and I can no longer stand in the shower. Being only five foot long, I can actually float in a standard bath.
Sometimes, I wish I had more body area to scrub, as I told Father. Noting my piled-on paunch, he observed, ‘You’re working on that one, though, aren’t you, son?’
My preferred modus operandi for a bath is dimmed lighting and disastrously loud radio, as I have to take out my hearing aids. Radio 4 Extra blares the abridged Dickens out of our small detached. And I’m surprised Hancock’s Half Hour hasn’t become the first show to be given an ASBO.
Still, it’s a break for the neighbours from the three of us having antisocial aggro with one another. I nearly called the police the other night at 2am. Someone was dragging heavy objects in an adjacent room while swearing at the top of his voice. Turned out it was Father repositioning a deaf and jigglesome Mother back onto the commode.
I recently went to a favourite hotel on business. The room had had a new bath fitted and I’d bought an exciting, eucalyptus-based bath cream to try.
All seemed well. I was languishing in the beautiful, free, hot water – and an early-’70s full-cast adaption of Poirot, complete with nostalgically offensive accents for the suspicious characters – when I suddenly felt a strange chill. Opening my eyes, I realised I was a little fat man lying in an empty bath.
>span class="s1">Poirot had only just taken his hat off, never mind trying to solve a sodding thing. I had eucalyptus foam applied generously round my articles with no water to uneucalyptise my bits.
How could this happen with a new bath? I analysed the conventional plug and realised it was not a tight enough fit. I’m not a man of science, but I like to be proved right. So I filled up the tub again and recorded on my phone camera the seven minutes it took to drain.
Rather proud of my guerrilla journalism – and buoyed with the enthusiasm for the morning only a good sleep and eucalyptus-scented testicles can bring – I made my way to check out at the reception desk.
The water had all run out of the plughole. Poirot had only just taken his hat off, never mind trying to solve a sodding thing. I had eucalyptus foam applied generously round my articles with no water to uneucalyptise my bits.
I felt brave enough to confide in him about the bath-plug problem.
He studied the seven minutes of footage with a look that showed me how appalled he was by the plug and the poor customer experience engendered.
I could see from his furrowed monobrow that he was onside. So I ventured a question: ‘If I sent this clip to you, would you send it on to head office?’
‘No, no, no, sir. It would not be the right thing to do.’
‘Why not? This clip clearly shows an unacceptable plug leakage!’
He said, ‘It also clearly shows a naked man filming on a mobile phone.’
He drew my attention to my naked form reflected in both bath taps. I’m the only man whose distorted reflection on the wonky surface of a polished tap actually looks taller and less wide than the real person. I must admit I’ve since replayed the clip to myself, whenever I’ve been feeling a bit low.
Two weeks later, I deliberately booked the same hotel. This time, I filmed a non-blue version of the selfsame incident. I had seen someone on YouTube solve a similar problem with a generic plunger and some builder’s putty. So I was also able to have a radio-omnibus bath – I managed to listen to the full recording of The Camomile Lawn.
When I returned home, Mother was sitting in the long chair. This is the venue for her most formal high-drama moments. Every New Year, she is lowered into it to choose the year’s lottery numbers and who is going to be taken off her birthday-card list.
She cried, ‘Is this how it ends for me? A budget hotel phones me to tell me my son has left some pleasuring apparatus in their bathroom?’
‘Mother, it’s … oh. It’s a sink plunger and some rubber stuff, I’m guessing?’
My innocent plea fell on medically diagnosed deaf ears. Mother wants me to bathe with mittens ‘to ensure against devilry’ – as she puts it to the neighbours, when they asked why we’re all shouting again.
