Living with my grandmother in Bath, I sort of thought I was living in the 19th century. My grandmother was someone who, in a way, was rather defiantly trying to live a pre-World War I existence.
You can often wash your troubles away with the right kind of bath. Throw everything you have into the tub: bubble gels, bubble oils, bubble powders, bubble gum.
My favourite room in my house is easily the top room, which is a bedroom but also a bathroom, with a big, wooden carved bath, two huge fireplaces and a raised bit in the corner for performances. I've had some really lovely parties and poetry readings up there.
A conventional good read is usually a bad read, a relaxing bath in what we know already. A true good read is surely an act of innovative creation in which we, the readers, become conspirators.
I live on the edge of Bath. It's really lovely, but its very loveliness freaks me out a bit. It's peaceful, a great antidote to the craziness of being on tour, but sometimes I feel as though I've retired.
