Angol gets clean

It has a remote control. You might wonder why a shower would need a remote control, given the rarity of occasions on which it is useful to have your shower running when you're not in it, but that's because you don't know what else my shower can do. It has a radio, spotlights, a fan, and a button with a little picture of a telephone on it that, presumably, means it will answer the telephone for you if you happen to be busy soaping your armpits. Again, it's not clear why you would need to do any of these things remotely since that would mean you weren't in the shower at the time and, therefore, quite capable of answering the phone or turning the light on in a fully-clothed and non-sudsy state. I don't care. The fact that I have a remote-controlled shower makes me feel I am at the cutting edge of human civilisation. There is also one unmarked button that I'm too scared to push in case it ejects me through the ceiling while simultaneously launching flares and broadcasting "SHOWERER IN DISTRESS!… SHOWERER IN
DISTRESS!" over shortwave radio.

The utility of the remote control is, admittedly, further limited by the fact that my bathroom is only four metres square. I have to stand on top of the washing machine before I'm truthfully in a position where I couldn't just more easily lean over and press the buttons in the shower instead. This doesn't necessarily stop me climbing out of the shower and onto the washing machine a couple of times a day just so I can switch the pulsating blue LED lights on and off remotely. I hate to introduce another note of negativity here, but it would be nice if my shower received something other than Radio Maryja. I'm starting to associate the soothing sensation of warm water with the voice of Father Rydzyk, which isn't going to be good for anybody's soul.

I don’t want to give the impression that my Polish super-shower is all bells and whistles and no substance. It's not. The ordinary showers people in other countries have simply deliver water at the head end and siphon it away from the feet. My shower has numerous adjustable jets, fountains and foot-massaging options that can deliver water in excitingly unexpected places, often without warning. It has taken me some time to accept that the occasional jet of scalding water to the buttocks is an integral part of living in Poland. It would help a lot if the hot-water supply in my flat was more reliable than a Nigerian budget airline, and if putting stress on the electricity supply didn’t cause my neighbour’s fridge to explode, but that’s why the Polish shower is a perfect metaphor - it’s an example of Polish ingenuity waiting for the basic services to support it reliably.

Of course, not everyone on Poland has access to the latest in shower technology, but these cabinets are advertised and available everywhere for not ridiculous prices. I have one because they caught the eye of my landlord. My landlord is a top bloke and I won't hear a word said against him, but he does have a tragic weakness for gadgets. His wife won't let him play with them at home, so he satisfies his urges by installing them in my place instead. The shower is his prize possession. Every time he visits, he has to have a look at it. Sometimes he invents reasons to visit, just so he can have a go with the remote—it's not completely unknown for him to bring cousins or coach parties from Pcim. The super-shower is not the only gift I have received. I also have a small illuminated plastic bird and a doorbell that plays one of 17 random melodies every time a Jehovah’s Witness rings it. Right now I have to go and recharge my laser-guided potato peeler, but while I’m doing that I’m going to think long and hard about
how to sell this article to Poland’s shower manufacturers.

Jamie Stokes