So I’m sitting in the bath, sloshing about in all my corpulent wonder , when I think to myself “Hey Self, you’ve never written a blog in a bath before!” (Alliteration:10 pts to Gryffindor).

So now I’m writing this blog entry from the bath.

It’s somewhat humorous considering I don’t even really have a specific topic to chat about, as the regular throng can attest to (Sarcasm – I’m also a cunning linguist)

But I would like to point out that bathtubs, as a rule, aren’t really engineered for comfort. I know the average women (I can’t use my wife as an example, as she far exceeds the average woman – see what I did there guys??) can spend years in a bath. I likely could too, if I didn’t usually end up resembling some kind of grumpy, red-faced Mr Potato Head with all of his bits in the wrong places, playing aqua Twister with the plastic tub surround.

So I sit and soak, a myriad of limbs jutted uncomfortably up against the ceramic veneer whilst shifting the other foot under the water, casting a tepid wave of water back towards my chest.

I curse. I moan. My knees and back ache for all the soothing warm water they won’t inhabit again.

And just when I think I’ve found the right mix between function and joint numbing compromise, my foot spasms and kicks the desktop monitor into the tub.

Well, shit.