The shower concert. The boiler decides the encore.

The shower concert always begins modestly. I go in to wash, with a clear plan and no intention of performing. Then I hear my voice bounce off the tiles and decide that somebody should take this discovery seriously. The shower does more than improve the acoustics: it gives you a reputation you do not have outside the bathroom.

I start with two notes, just to test things. By the third, I have an imaginary audience. By the fourth, I am thanking everyone who supported me from the beginning. The shampoo bottle is one of them. It was there through difficult times and has never criticised the repertoire.

The microphone promises volume

I pick up the shampoo, bring it towards my mouth and adopt the expression of somebody about to share something personal. Then I remember the lid is open. Back it goes. The technical department should check these things before a show, but the technical department is also me and currently has shampoo in its eyes.

A verse is easy while I know the words. Once I forget them, I switch to an elaborate vocal run and look upwards as though I chose it for artistic reasons. Actually, I got distracted reading the conditioner bottle: “Hydroxypropyltrimonium Hydrolyzed Wheat Protein.” It is an ingredient with the length of a wedding guest list. I try to fit it into the verse on the beat. By the time I reach “Protein”, the chorus has gone by and the boiler has asked for a break.

The sponge hangs motionless. I interpret this as an audience deeply moved by the performance. The razor looks like somebody brought along by their girlfriend who hopes it will finish soon.

The choreography meets the body wash

Eventually singing is no longer enough. A hand on my heart, a head turn, an arm reaching for the horizon and finding the mixer tap. Within three seconds, my emotional ballad becomes a polar expedition. I interrupt the high note with a sound no singing school has agreed to take responsibility for.

I move a foot to finish the scene with an elegant step. There is body wash underneath it and the floor has an alternative plan. My knee sets off, my torso stays behind, and a vertebra immediately submits its resignation. I cling to the only sensible idea remaining: standing still. The choreography gets cancelled. My dignity left during the soundcheck.

From here, the show becomes acoustic, stationary and slightly offended. I convey intensity with my eyebrows. They are the only part of me capable of touring without involving an orthopaedic specialist.

Security has knocked on the door

“Are you nearly done?” comes a voice from outside. I say “yes” in the tone of somebody receiving an unreasonable request at the peak of her career. The trouble with domestic concerts is that audiences do not know they are audiences. They think they live there and have a right to use the bathroom.

Then the boiler decides the repertoire has been sufficient. The water changes temperature and the finale becomes very short. I emerge in a dressing gown, hair wet, certain this version of the song will never be repeated. Mainly because I could never reproduce the notes I made when I touched the tap.

Before this stop came the supermarket concert. Next, provided my knees approve the tour, comes the treadmill and fan. Choose the setlist from my songs; find more questionable decisions in Raga, ho una teoria, my Italian-language book. Someone else needs the bathroom, though. They have just reminded me for the third time.