My Mother's shower in Namibia is the kind that makes you sing. Volubly and for the entire glorious time it takes you to get clean. I sang "gone fishing", "cheek to cheek", "morning has broken" and a favourite - "the bright side of life". It is HOT, there is pressure, the light shines in through the window, and the towels are fluffy and dry.
There was nothing to sing about in this evening's shower. It was the opposite of a singing kind of shower. It was a shower in which songs run down the drain and into Grevy Houses' septic field, never to be heard again. You won't even be able to find their lyrics on Google.
The water trickles, nay, it oozes from the nozzle. It is lukewarm, not cold so that you can complain with pride about having a cold shower. The parts of your body which stick out of the water (ie: most parts) are vulnerable to dive bombing and large mosquitoes. The water is weak-tea coloured, leaving you in doubt as to whether you are actually getting clean. The last and final insult is that here is another country where towels do not dry from day to day, but instead are clammy to the frail and beaten and bitten skin.
There is no bright side of life to this shower. Monty Python should go take a hike.
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