Cosmic retribution

Swift. Relentless. Merciless.

Like shards of glass, the fucking freezing water spurs the resounding yelp I emit as I hop clear of the spray, unable to comprehend the shocking change in temperature. Lathery bubbles slip down to cover the area recently victimised, as I gingerly poke a finger at the falls. Fucking freezing. I give it a couple of beats before allowing scientific curiosity to prevail. Icy. Hmmmm. This is taking longer than I expected. I move the heating knob in anticipation of scaring the hot water to optimal performance. The incessant stream from above disdainfully ignores the stimulus. Apparently, this is not one of those split second lapses in the delivery of hot water as I had diagnosed. The ambient temperature has obviously liquidised my brains, as I fail to grasp the enormity of the situation, still waiting for geyser like conditions to restore themselves, oblivious to Murphy’s dictat:. Have soap suds, water will (a) stop (b) freeze (c) turn muddy.

The water now seems even colder, and I mull over my predicament. All those endless showers, wallowing under the hot water, careless of my reckless contribution to global warming… it has come home to roost. There is no more hot water. I surrender to my cosmic karma, and begin gentle ministrations to eliminate my body of the fragrant bubbles. The cosmos is not amused by my efforts and the bubbles start whispering all over the bits I’ve just subjected to the ever freezing temperatures. A deep sigh, and I take bolder steps. The lather slithers down my spine. Fuck it. I take a deep breath and offer myself up for the retribution, wincing as the glacial spray mauls the residual lather into submission.

Feeling a lot fresher than I intended, I join the family on the sofa, and after a few Rajesh Khanna specials (not to mention a Vinod Khanna bonus, that man oozes sex appeal!), we comfortably settle on Notting Hill, and the scene with the last brownie. But my karma is not done with me yet, and my ears register the familiarity of the opening bars before Ronan Keating tells me how amazing it is that I can see right to his heart. When did this happen? I have enjoyed the film a number of times, and have no recollection of this prolonged assault. It IS bloody amazing. Amazing how music and motifs sprout everywhere after the fact, in an annoyingly mocking manner. I’ll stick to Lady Gaga with her Bad Romance. Seems karmic.