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The bath had not run over and felt quite acceptable to the touch. I ripped off my clothes, stepped in and lay down. It was then that I realised my frostbitten fingers and icy, circulation-free feet had not given an accurate indication of the bath's temperature. Lukewarm would be a compliment. At best, it was tepid. The anticipation of warmth I had experienced moments before now evaporated entirely. I was cold, wet and covered in goosebumps. I became extremely nostalgic for the time when I'd been merely cold. The state of 'dryness' took on a previously unappreciated value. And although I'd been spared the clichéd hell of an overflow, I was now deep in the humiliating wastefulness that is a bath full of unwanted water - not only was I not hot, I was needlessly using up the earth's resources. I was cold and evil.
It had all been too much. Eventually the faithful boiler replenished its supplies but it was too little too late - I'd been defeated, unable to linger any longer. Now I'm back upstairs, flannel pyjamas and fleecy slippers positioned appropriately on my person, novelty Zippy-from-Rainbow hot water bottle clutched to my abdomen. I'm still cold, but at least I've learned an important life lesson: never sit down to read the Oscar Nominations online when I've got taps running. I blame Helen Mirren.
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