"Ow ow ow! You're going to scrub a hole in my skin, Dame Washalot! You don't have to be so rough!"

"That's what you think, lass. You're not a joey and you have all sorts of pre-conceived notions about what is and isn't art. Enchanteur warned me about your type!"

I submitted to the Dame's rubbing, grumbling to myself, "I can't help if I've got a few decades on me, and more than a few hours of classroom time. I've watched my share of educational programming, I admit. I will try to be open, release inhibitions, go with the blasted flow, but what do they expect? I can't be something I'm not.

"Now just lay you back and I'll lather up your hair." I lay back and Dame Washalot began massaging a wonderful shampoo into my hair, scented with pine and rose and a touch of almond. I began to relax as she kneaded the sweet soap into my scalp. She carefully rinsed my head with warm water, and then gave me 2 turquoise colored Turkish towels, one for drying my hair, and another for the rest of me.

"Here's some jojoba oil, smooth it all over your skin," Dame Washalot instructed. I did. I felt warm, and clean, and ready to get dressed and take to the streets of the City of Ladies.

The timing is perfect for this new venture of scrubbing and sloughing away what is no longer useful. With the new year beckoning, and all, it seems frivolous to dwell on the old crusty stuff. Well, they are old, aren't they, my thoughts that seem to want attention and airtime. Some of my thoughts have been so old of late they have surprised me, popping up out of nowhere, waiting to see if I still want them. Well, wash and scrub away, what is useless to me, I say. Some things are worth letting go, and that which is left can remain to become new and full of promise. Often at this time of year I discard and sort, and the same thing can apply to old ways of thinking. So let the soap dissolve old muddy ways and petty annoyances, let the salt water clear the debris away, let the perfume clear the mind of clutter and take it to another place. I watched a film tonight that was so full of ancient ways and damaging "cause and effect" that it forced my decision further to let go of old things, wishing the world would too. Seen on film, they are vivid and appalling, and may be burned into the memory as being totally useless customs and old superstitions and behaviours. Free then, I am, to respond and think differently, not marred by useless convention.

``What's a washing tub?" One of my grandchildren asked, when I was making my miniature caravan. The question made me smile, for the old fashioned galvanised washing tub hasn't been seen for many years. I showed her the miniature tub I had painted to look like tin and the tiny scrubbing board that went with it. I told her how my mother and grandmothers had used these to do their laundry, and pointed out that the washing tub was just big enough for a small child. ``You had a bath in it?" She asked, wide eyed.

Rub a dub dub
In the big tin tub
That hung on the wall with a rope.
Rub a dub dub
Having a scrub
With Wright's coal tar soap.

The soap had a strong antiseptic smell that permeated everything. There is no cleaner smell in the world. I was soaped all over with the yellow suds, from my hair to my toes, then was rinsed off with jugs of water - the bathwater at first, then clean rinse water.

Rub a dub tub
In the big tin tub
In Grandmother's Kitchen.
Rub a dub dub
Having a scrub
The flames in the fireplace twitching.

When I stayed with my English Grandmother, I was bathed in her dim scullery down the stairs. The only lights were from a tiny gas flame high on the walls and the flickering flames of the scullery fire. It was warm and cosy down there with no draughts to give me a chill. Grandmother had a big fluffy towel to wrap me in at the end and I dried off in front of the fire.

Rub a dub dub
In the big tin tub
Like a child in Dame Washalot's hands.
Rub a dub dub
Having a scrub
Time falls away like hourglass sands.

Dame Washalot's strong, competent hands remind me of my Grandmother. She hums as she rubs the soap into me with a coarse piece of flannel, works the suds into my hair with determined fingers, then rinses and rinses until she is satisfied that I am pink and new. How many years has she washed away? Too many to count. As she wraps the big warm towel around me I realise she has grown taller - or maybe I have grown smaller. I look into the washtub, filled with the cares of the years, the learned responses and expectations I have carried with me for so long. One by one, like bubbles, they pop and disappear.

Rub a dub dub
In the big tin tub
All my troubles are washed right away.
Rub a dub dub
I've had my scrub
Now I'm ready to go out and play.

Dame Washalot has a very special guided imagery that she does with favourite clients. In order to achieve more fame than the local foot tatooist she is offering this to Ravens.

Lie on one of the chairs in the Bath House and close your eyes. Mentally relax every part of your body, beginning with your toes and working right up to your nose.

Now spirit says that your creative self is often like the Simpson Desert. Visualize that desert. Visualize it's unrelenting heat and barren places.

Now listen to the water trickling in the bath house. Imagine it spilling through the desert. Watch for life to appear. Visualize the oasis which begins to emerge and know that this is what your creative self is capable of.