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The Old Sow at Bath Well here you'll have it, then: Old Sow trying to diminish---even denigrate---the awesome Bath Tour Guide talents of Douglas Clark. Reasons, obvious: What sodding petc bloke of you will not hop across the pond and phone Douglas up as you swing near Bath in your Vauxhall 5-speed rental car, cheerily suggesting Lunch whilst angling for The Douglas Clark Bath Tour. And those blokes of you living in the U Queendom, most of whom have never been to Bath---or even taken a proper bath---will squeeze dear Douglas with a similarly transparent proposal. What Old Sow and Young Robbie did, rather, was to hint to Douglas that we might purchase one of his poetry books when we met in Bath just before our extensive tour of Bath (We might even buy one copy each, one never knew, did one?). Hence, now, and forevermore, all worked to the greatest good for Sow and Robbie, as given herein: Whilst Old Sow stood transfixed in front of signs saying "Madonna drank here" and "Gap clothing at outrageously hiked prices," Robbie raced into most of the public places underground and then into several pubs facing the lovely Bath Square in order to micturate. That is what he told me, at least. My not having brought a UK dictionary meant that following pretty much ANYTHING which that Shakespearean scholarly bloke said was a total crap shoot. But, then, he does prepare toast rather well---and what more does one need? We two arrived a tad late in front of Bath Abbey which looks like a big church with flying things that are given the name Butt-ress, for reasons only the unButtressed might want to know---if they are about to build a big butt church. One cannot help but note that all the beautiful residences and commercial buildings in Bath are a cream-tan colour because they've been made of local stone called Bathstone which is never used in an actual Bathroom for reasons best known to those who have built a bathroom in Bath. (The preceding historical facts and asides were NOT provided by Douglas Clark whom we had not yet seen at that point.) Old Sow and Young Robbie jumped up and down upon sighting Douglas, the slender, smiling, cream-tan Scotsman who bespectacled us immediately, whereupon we three began a brilliantly choreographed and timed tour beginning with the best duck salad Old Sow's ever had at a non-smoking pub called the Green Tree where no more than six people are allowed to eat because the pub itself is 12 by 7 feet. Douglas chuffed us with the latest news of familiar poets, with info and wry observations in answer to my questions about his Scottish background and English livingplaces. He then whisked us off to the sumptuous Royal Crescent houses, our sussing out the Number One with its unrivaled view of the HA HA (boundary dividing public/private front greensward). Down in the kitchen, we contemplated stealing the multi-mouse trap with a couple dead mice hanging out of it, and we admired the dog-powered treadmill that turned the spit to roast meat. Next, the Costume Museum! Just there lay the loose jokes of Old Sow and Young Robbie whilst ever-respectful Douglas observed, heard, and gently smiled. Ah, the patience necessary to a genteel Bath TourGuide! Sow and Rob noted the heavily embroidered tapestried clothings of Ye Olde Nobility types, of the women's birdcage undercarriage 'neath weighted skirts, of the necessity for several servants to dress their Betters, and the loud fact that we ourselves wore nylon jackets, jerseys, jeans, and low-heeled shoes. The highlight of Bath's Costume Museum was the Corsets exhibit, just round the bend from the Nobility Folks' Glad Rags. Douglas observed genteelly, Young Robbie observed intriguedly, and Old Sow observed fascinatedly and actively the torture contraptions that nevertheless beautifully enfabricked women's bosoms and waists. Corsets! Best of all, a jeans-clad young woman was being helped into a cagey corset by her laughing female friend. I wrenched the camera from Douglas' hand, suggesting that I might be the better one to photograph the now bare-midriffed young woman struggling to stuff her breasts into the satin plaid corset. Several photos later, Old Sow suggested that it'd be best for the nubile woman simply to buy a push-up bra, if that was her unexpressed desire for pulchritude. We all had good laffs, the men being coy---but not wanting particularly to leave the spot. Old Sow had to shove them out of the room, the dear romantic souls. The rest I will leave to imaginations unimagined by even Old Sow. Live happily upon our memories, dear friends. We urge you to appreciate but not contact Douglas Clark THE BEST BATH TOUR GUIDE. And Old Sow will charge only 40 pence for each corset photo. Lovingly yours, Old Sow from Bath