There is a luxury inherent in living in an apartment, one which most of us, myself included, have taken for granted for much too long – that of unlimited hot water. Of course, I had reassured and steeled myself for lack of such an amenity in living in the bush – but lack means some, and I had none. There was a valve left unturned, a switch un-flicked, somewhere in the belly of my trailer, far out of reach of my dirty and unhappy body. It is one thing to know that there is no hot water, filthiness can be borne with a light though greasy shoulder – it is another to know that hot water is there, and just beyond your smelly reach.
So, fancying myself a pioneer, I surveyed the small bathtub and my number of pots and pans, and promptly started them to boiling water for a shallow, yet warm bath. The bathtub itself was about two feet by four feet, and maybe two feet deep – enough for me, a small girl, to get herself properly wet, if not clean. So I put 3 large pots of water on to boil, and sat down to listen to the radio. A few minutes later Rick arrived, asking if I would like to go to Sunday brunch, surveying my greasy hair and snarly face. I mentioned that my hot water wasn’t working, thus the reason I looked the way I did. Coaching me into the bowels of my trailer, describing with suspicious accuracy the way the valves looked now, and the way they should look for hot water to be present – I fixed the problem. At this point I am now covered in dirt, spider webs and grease, and am much relieved when Rick suggests a shower before Sunday brunch, and gives me half an hour until he returns.
I don’t want to appear prissy. Prissy won’t do when I’m expected to ride quads and fix oil wells and fend off bears. I need to be ready in half an hour. I quickly strip, and jump in the small shower, sudsying up my hair quickly, factoring in time to blow dry my bangs – when the hot water gives out. Not slowly. But with the force of a Mac truck I am hit with glacier temperature water, so cold that it will barely remove the shampoo from my hair, despite my feeble attempts to simultaneously rinse with one hand and keep my nipples from falling off with the other.
I turn the water off, and stood, shivering, in the bathroom, until I remembered the three pots of hot water sitting steaming on the stove, three small pots of salvation. I manoeuvre the frozen rubber plug into the drain, and attempt to prop my soapy frozen hair upon my head before grabbing a towel and opening the bathroom door. I am greeted with bracingly cold air, having left the door open after Rick left, giving me the motivation, and visualisation powers of an athlete – I picture myself sitting in far more water than these three pots will ever garner, warm and soapy and clean, ready within half an hour. In reality, I grab a pot, slip and slide back into the bathroom, depositing half in the toilet on the way there. The second pot goes smoother, filling the bathtub another painful 8th of an inch. The third pot, having two small handles on either side, I grab and heft off the stove, as a soapy strand of hair flops into my eye and I simultaneously realise that the handles are made of metal. Dropping the pot back on the stove, I rip my towel open and use either side to take hold of the handles.
It is in this state, boiling pot of water in front of my breasts, towel draped like a cape with utility pot holders attached, that I peer through my one good eye not covered in shampoo at the three golfers on the 4th green peering into my kitchen.
I was not ready in half an hour.
So, fancying myself a pioneer, I surveyed the small bathtub and my number of pots and pans, and promptly started them to boiling water for a shallow, yet warm bath. The bathtub itself was about two feet by four feet, and maybe two feet deep – enough for me, a small girl, to get herself properly wet, if not clean. So I put 3 large pots of water on to boil, and sat down to listen to the radio. A few minutes later Rick arrived, asking if I would like to go to Sunday brunch, surveying my greasy hair and snarly face. I mentioned that my hot water wasn’t working, thus the reason I looked the way I did. Coaching me into the bowels of my trailer, describing with suspicious accuracy the way the valves looked now, and the way they should look for hot water to be present – I fixed the problem. At this point I am now covered in dirt, spider webs and grease, and am much relieved when Rick suggests a shower before Sunday brunch, and gives me half an hour until he returns.
I don’t want to appear prissy. Prissy won’t do when I’m expected to ride quads and fix oil wells and fend off bears. I need to be ready in half an hour. I quickly strip, and jump in the small shower, sudsying up my hair quickly, factoring in time to blow dry my bangs – when the hot water gives out. Not slowly. But with the force of a Mac truck I am hit with glacier temperature water, so cold that it will barely remove the shampoo from my hair, despite my feeble attempts to simultaneously rinse with one hand and keep my nipples from falling off with the other.
I turn the water off, and stood, shivering, in the bathroom, until I remembered the three pots of hot water sitting steaming on the stove, three small pots of salvation. I manoeuvre the frozen rubber plug into the drain, and attempt to prop my soapy frozen hair upon my head before grabbing a towel and opening the bathroom door. I am greeted with bracingly cold air, having left the door open after Rick left, giving me the motivation, and visualisation powers of an athlete – I picture myself sitting in far more water than these three pots will ever garner, warm and soapy and clean, ready within half an hour. In reality, I grab a pot, slip and slide back into the bathroom, depositing half in the toilet on the way there. The second pot goes smoother, filling the bathtub another painful 8th of an inch. The third pot, having two small handles on either side, I grab and heft off the stove, as a soapy strand of hair flops into my eye and I simultaneously realise that the handles are made of metal. Dropping the pot back on the stove, I rip my towel open and use either side to take hold of the handles.
It is in this state, boiling pot of water in front of my breasts, towel draped like a cape with utility pot holders attached, that I peer through my one good eye not covered in shampoo at the three golfers on the 4th green peering into my kitchen.
I was not ready in half an hour.
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