TEMPTATION
"How cold is it?" she asked.
"Minus fifteen centigrade? Minus twenty? Something around there."
"That's ridiculously cold. Are you sure? I was guessing more like plus 15."
"I didn't have a thermometer so I had to approximate using visual clues."
"What clues?" my wife asked.
I laid out my evidence in a reasonable and rational fashion.
"There was no queue. No joyous penguins awaiting their turn. No smiling polar bears already in the bath. And if its too cold for polar bears and penguins you know its pretty cold."
"Also, it wasn't snowing. Did you know the Antarctic is a desert because it's too cold for precipitation. We have no bathroom snow."
"Finally, I shivered when I put my hand into the water. I didn't cry out, but I did experience a physical reaction. That shows how cold it is."
"No polar bears?" my wife humoured me.
"I tell a lie, there was one polar bear, dressed in a bath robe, bobbly slippers and mittens. Muttering something about people jumping the queue. So I muttered something back about who's bath it was, and he wandered off with yet more muttering about a hot chocolate and marshmallows. He's coming back tomorrow and hoping for privacy."
I finished making my cup of tea, then added, "But I've got to go, the bath is half full of near iceberg-infested tap water. I don't want it to warm up, that would spoil the benefit."
- - -
This was my first experience of cold water therapy. Elite athletes do it. Elite military does it. So why not elite poets?
They didn't start as elite. Elite athletes do it as part of their training to become elite. Elite military do it as part of their training to become elite.
How can I resist the temptation? An opportunity to elevate my dubious, euphemistically encouraged, minor league efforts to near Olympian level. I can't wait for rhymes to flow and meter to combobulate after this intense training session.
Why not try it? Why not have a go?
- - -
Five minutes later I know answers to these questions. I'll leave the cold water to the polar bears. And possibly the poetry, too.
"Minus fifteen centigrade? Minus twenty? Something around there."
"That's ridiculously cold. Are you sure? I was guessing more like plus 15."
"I didn't have a thermometer so I had to approximate using visual clues."
"What clues?" my wife asked.
I laid out my evidence in a reasonable and rational fashion.
"There was no queue. No joyous penguins awaiting their turn. No smiling polar bears already in the bath. And if its too cold for polar bears and penguins you know its pretty cold."
"Also, it wasn't snowing. Did you know the Antarctic is a desert because it's too cold for precipitation. We have no bathroom snow."
"Finally, I shivered when I put my hand into the water. I didn't cry out, but I did experience a physical reaction. That shows how cold it is."
"No polar bears?" my wife humoured me.
"I tell a lie, there was one polar bear, dressed in a bath robe, bobbly slippers and mittens. Muttering something about people jumping the queue. So I muttered something back about who's bath it was, and he wandered off with yet more muttering about a hot chocolate and marshmallows. He's coming back tomorrow and hoping for privacy."
I finished making my cup of tea, then added, "But I've got to go, the bath is half full of near iceberg-infested tap water. I don't want it to warm up, that would spoil the benefit."
- - -
This was my first experience of cold water therapy. Elite athletes do it. Elite military does it. So why not elite poets?
They didn't start as elite. Elite athletes do it as part of their training to become elite. Elite military do it as part of their training to become elite.
How can I resist the temptation? An opportunity to elevate my dubious, euphemistically encouraged, minor league efforts to near Olympian level. I can't wait for rhymes to flow and meter to combobulate after this intense training session.
Why not try it? Why not have a go?
- - -
Five minutes later I know answers to these questions. I'll leave the cold water to the polar bears. And possibly the poetry, too.
