I am still cross about being too big to wrap myself properly in a towel. I expect that big enough towels exist, somewhere, but they will be reserved for the bathing elite.

When I was smaller than my grandmother, she would let me have a bath in her dark green en suite (I have since heard avocado bathrooms referred to sneeringly, but I thought – think – it was wonderful). I would hop in the water after she had hopped out, when it was cool enough not to make a lobster of my little body. I would play with foam letters and numbers, which would magically stick to the side of the bath. The bubbles smelled like her.

After I was as clean as I was likely to get, I was wrapped up in a tight cocoon, in an impossibly soft, white towel. It would engulf me from my toes to my chin, and I would be carried to my grandmother’s enormous bed as a warm, giggling cloud.

I have bought the biggest towels I can, and I try to make them soft and warm, and wrap myself tight after a hot shower; but it’s not the same. My ankles are cold, and I am far too big to be carried by my grandmother.

Featured image by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

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