As a nipper, although frankly I mean until about the age of 18, I wasn’t keen on baths. I was hyperactive, and staying more or less still for a period of five minutes or longer required effort. As a teenager, I found baths not conducive to my lifestyle, which mostly consisted of being late. Quicker bathing meant more sleep; more texting; more listening to indie bands with names unfathomably made up of punctuation.

Then: a mid-20s baptism into the devoutness of baths. A love of soaking bubbled to the surface. This love smells of lavender and bergamot oil. It feels like the damp, crinkled edges of book and magazine pages. It sounds like nothing, aside from the quiet swish and gargle of water when rearranging limbs. It tastes of the mug of tea balanced precariously on the side (but not so precariously as to be anxiety-making). I have a friend, Greg, who enjoys nibbling at cheese while in the bath; he even creates a little foil boat for it. He is an icon.

I cannot pinpoint the “Eureka!” moment (Archimedes’ famous bath pronouncement, of course) but it was probably around the time I swapped tagging pictures of nights out on social media for browsing Mumsnet for tips on moth control, AKA sinking into a premature middle age. What do babies and I have in common? We both have to be home for 7pm bathtime.

Running a bath is an art. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running A Bath: well, screw up temperature control and the experience can spill into disappointment. Either the water cools too quickly, forcing one out before time (as with getting to the pool too close to the whistle for a decent swim). Or the water is too hot, and one is left sweating profusely and feeling faint; philtrum transforming into an oxbow lake, knees turning a football club red. But get the perfect temperature and worries evaporate. Intrusive thoughts are sweated out.

As with purposely taking long bus journeys, I use my time in the tub to read. It is rare that I take my phone into the bathroom, because if I really can’t last an hour without it then I might as well let the waves take me. Of course, there is also the small matter of cleaning oneself. A good scrubbing of the back. A leg lolling over the side, being smoothed. A face mask that resembles a muddy accident. Standing, the tired hours of the day cascade away. Woes circle the drain. We float on.