Bath bombs.

Last night I was lying in the bath, thinking over all my past bathing experiences (as you do). My mind was cast back to an event that happened maybe a year or two ago. I was running a bath, and because I needed to relax after a long day of mutilating corpses, decided that I should add some form of oil or bath salts to the hot water to generally grease it up a bit. Searching around, I found what has been expertly named a "bath bomb". Fuck yes, thought I. This was going to be hardcore; this is like the IRA of bathing. A muddafuggin' bath bomb, I tell you. My imagination created a scenario somewhat like Hiroshima: clouds of fragrant smoke billowing out from under the taps and porcelain. Maybe I hoped it would be like that to somewhat lessen the fact that I had already completely emasculated myself. At this point I had about the testosterone of a brick. A female brick.

But alas, the bathbomb was actually a ball of crunchy purple crap, with petals shoved in it. That's right: Petals. No, not pedals. Not pendants. Petals. Who the fuck thought that one up? "I have an idea gals", says the business woman for the bathbomb company, "Women like flowers, right? And women like baths. Let's combine the two, and have petals in the bath! It'll be all romantic, like. Summat what like from Sleepless In Seattle!" To which all the women sigh dreamily. No, you're not Meg Ryan. Fuck off.

So anyway, I nonchalantly dropped the bathbomb into the water, and then it happened: A

PETALSPLOSION!

Run for your lives! Petals everywhere! Oh god, the carnage! The children are screaming! Why? Why o' god, why? Aagh! My house has been destroyed by petal shrapnel! Oh jesus, my cat! My cat's been crushed! The horror; the bloodshed; the aftermath.

Is exactly what didn't happen.

What actually happened is that that dud shit of a bomb fizzled away into nothingness, leaving behind half of the chelsea flower show in its wake. The water was a lurid purple colour, reminiscient of a melted Barney. Getting in was like taking a swim in porridge: sloppy petals stuck themselves onto my skin like leeches.

As I lay in the depth of my flooded interflora, I tried to relax the best I could. Unfortunately, this proved difficult, and I was forced to get out, peeling petal after petal from my arse crack. Once the plug had been pulled out, another problem arose. Here's a comprehensive breakdown:

Things that did go down the drain	Things that didn't go down the drain
Water. My dignity.	Petals. Purple colouring.

This resulted in me, essentially, getting down on my hands and knees. No, I haven't lost quite that amount of my masculinity yet, you dirty fuck. I'm referring to the 8 WHOLE HOURS (give or take 8 hours) that it took for me to pull out every single petal from that porcelain coffin, and scrub the purple scum ring that was around the sides.

Next time I need to relax I'm going to just castrate myself with a breadknife.