Quite frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn! No that's not quite true but hey-ho ... I have more important battles to gently and creepily wend my spooky way around.
Now, when we were kids (OK - here comes the tatty overused and rather tired old story) we didn't have the luxury of a bathroom, let alone a bathtub, shower, or hot water on tap. The odd sluice down with a shared damp rag sufficed. Maybe. Or a kettle of water if one could get the luxury of the scullery to oneself for ten minutes. And don't get me going on about the tin bath in front of the coal fire - assuming coal could be afforded.
So - I'm a bit perplexed about the fixation of all these bath or shower routines. Even the messy old pull-ups and pads are an improvement on bits of cut-up flannel sheeting so I tend to go with the mood of the day and either make a party-party of showering (together) or just flick the flannel where it's going to do the best job.
I do hope my rather easy-peasy attitude towards smelly bits and bobs does not offend or hurt anyone. It's not meant to and I wouldn't wish it to. But I've found *not* getting uptight about it makes it all the more delicious when we leave the sweet and steamy bathroom with shiny bods and bots, glossy hair, and freshly laundered wrinkles.