Recently I finally completed my Sigur Rós collection by getting the only album of theirs I didn't have, 2002's oddly named '( )'.
So I thought in honour of finally having this album, I would bask in its ambient waves as the warm water lapped over me and caressed me to my very soul. And boy did it work.
I rediscovered many forgotten joys about baths, such as the scent of the bubble bath filling my nostrils, the sound of silence when you let your head underwater and putting a big lump of soapy suds on top of my head.
Along with these I was reunited with the old bathing qualm, the ball-dip. For males such as me who like their baths hot, the ball-dip is the most difficult and painful part of the bath-entering process; the part in which the testicular satchel is submerged into the water as the man sits down, the final temperature test and the part in which the man makes a lot of strange noises. The ball-dip is a perilous bridge, but a bridge that must be crossed in order for bath entry to be carried out successfully.
The bath was complimented perfectly with some Pina Colada scented bubble bath, making it possibly one of the most masculine episodes of my life so far.