"Scoff, scoff," I would scoff scoffingly, "that's just a cliché that Avon used in 1953 to sell bubble bath."
I would point to the description of this image, which - I scoff you not - is MOTHER'S DAY-BUBBLEBATH.jpg, and which I nicked from a page called "Mother's Day Gift Ideas" and call my case closed:
|You can't see the book, but it's there. I stand by my image choice.|
And pictures like this
Make me want to throw that radio into the water and scoff maniacally.
My, how the tables have turned. (See also: the scoffer becomes the scoffee)
I've become someone who looks forward to her bath at the end of the day.
Her bath with a book. Her scorchingly hot bath with bubbles and orange-smelly stuff and a cold cloth for her forehead and an even colder gin & tonic for her hand and a book in her other hand and sometimes even a (cotton candy scented) candle.
Feels like this:
Looks like this:
P.S. I didn't wear a girdle, didn't blow dry my hair, didn't have a coffee, didn't buy new clothes, and still managed to pass my exam last week. Will wonders never cease?