I never feel quite at home upon reaching my childhood home until I have a shower. First, there's the shower door, missing its handle for the past decade now. It must be navigated along its rungs with a degree of care. It's not some shower curtain that can be thrust to and fro in an absentminded, hurried gesture, mere prelude to the shower itself. Rather, it encourages an attentive approach to the relationship between man and technology.
Then there's the showerhead itself. It's an ancient, ragged looking thing, at least 25 years old. It is also one of the best, most powerful examples of its breed that I have ever experienced. For the past decade now, I've been showering in apartments, rented houses, and... sigh... rez washrooms. The water is always under someone else's control, and emits itself in turgid, often frigid flows. I am sick of this whiffling water. The older I get, the more I appreciate a good nozzle. You know the saying on what cleanliness is next to? Well, showerhead is next to godhead.
Finally, there is the faucet itself. In most baths, the faucet is attached to the wall at a right angle. Ours has a 45 degree decline. That's because, about nine years ago, I slipped in the tub, somehow twisting so that I landed facing away from the showerhead, and slammed my back into the faucet, lowering it to its current state. And yes, it was pretty painful, and yes, it left a lasting but if you think I got messed up, then, Gentle Reader, you should see the other guy. Er, appliance.