There’s some truly excellent bathtub writing in Service, John Tottenham brand new novel. Here, illegally probably, is a sample:
I slid into the tub as it was filling up and once submerged increased the flow of hot water until almost boiling. Then, and only then, did I know something resembling contentment.
It is my duty as a novelist to describe my time in the bathtub, basking in the consolation of art and liquor — I should be summoning the sounds of cars rumbling by on the street outside, the strains of eerie violin sliding in, and the gurgling of water as it lapped against the overflow drain; I should be depicting the ant scurrying along the side of the bathtub, flirting with the spume-laced waterline, then darting back up to attempt egress through the deceptive crack at the bottom of the fake beige-veined marble tile; and I should be delineating the first exquisite sip of the Presbyterian, rich with the promise of relaxation, as it eased down my throat, and how I abstracted myself from these material surroundings and lost myself in the soothing world of Barbara Pym’s prose — not merely to state, dryly and diaristically, that I enjoyed spending time in the bath, but to reproduce the experience with telling details and evocative little flourishes.
Well, I did that. Honestly, I did.
And there’s more:
“Most of my reading takes place in the bathtub,” I added, hoping to impress her with an interesting personal fact.
“Really?”
“I often read for two hours or longer in there, sipping a cocktail, with classical music playing in the next room. It gives me more pleasure than anything else.”
“Anything?” she said, smiling again.
“Just about,” I said.
“Doesn’t the water get cold?” she asked.
“I adjust the taps with my toes and drain the existing water as I’m doing it.” It always amazes me when I’m asked this question; the answer seemed so obvious, but maybe some people didn’t read in the bath.
“Don’t your hands get wrinkled?”
“No, because they’re above the water level, holding the book.”
“Don’t you get faint?” That long smile appeared again.
“Sometimes, when I finally emerge. Where do you read?”
“Usually in bed…”
“Do you work here?” we were interrupted by a customer.
“Whatever gives you that impression? Never mind. What do you need?”
Just wonderful stuff. Everyone should read Service. He works in a bookshop and is miserable there. It’s Black Books but really bitter. Blacker Books.
