life does not imitate art.

Look at this beautiful bath. It's like the bath you see in films or adverts.

It's the sort of bath that flakes are eaten in.

Girls with big blonde curls lie seductively in baths like this whilst whispering sweet nothings into pink phones to their lovers.

People sink into these bubbles and let out sighs and little moans as they feel the weight of the world slip from their shoulders, melt into the warm water and slide away through the plug hole.

Not me though. I get into baths like this, rip open a fresh copy of Marie Claire whilst 'ho ho ho-ing' to myself in a 'I can't quite believe my luck' kind of way and flick quickly through the pages for the free stuff listening to the sound of my son crying.

After 20 minutes of this, I get out the bath and see to Arlo who's beyond all kind of shoogling and 'hooshty baba's' and needs a good hour of swinging in the sling and soothed and then a further hour of lying flat out on my chest before waking up and getting a bottle.

2 hours later, I slip back into this bath. There are no bubbles left, there is a hint of warm. I do not sigh or moan when I get into this bath. This is the sort of bath you don't see in adverts or in films.

It's a real life bath.