Indicators of epochal change can pop up in the most unlikely places and this week news about a potential revolution in the nation’s bathroom habits came from Barnet. In what may one day be seen as the most dramatic development in the history of the bathroom since Thomas Crapper popularised the flushing lavatory, the Tory-run council has proposed planning rules to encourage builders to install showers in new homes, but not baths.

Before construction of single homes and small residential developments begins the builders must answer the question: “Is a bath necessary?” I just dropped that incendiary little question into a group of female colleagues. I immediately regretted it. They started ululating and beating their breasts. “What is Jo Malone for?” wailed one.

Barnet has taken the lead in Cameroonian-style green politics, including threatening recycling refuseniks with fines. This new initiative is part of a strategy to reduce the amount of water that disappears down plug- holes. Trying to work out how we can each do our bit to help the world to husband its resources more efficiently is fast becoming the single most time-consuming activity outside work, and I fear it won’t be long before I have to give that up to concentrate on finding the best-value water butt and address my failure to compost.

The possibility that the end could be nigh for the bath kept me musing in the tub last night for almost an hour, requiring four or five top-ups. Well, if it was to be my last soak I reasoned that it might as well be a proper one.

The bath has been the cornerstone of civilisation for millennia. Knossos, and the other palaces of Minoan civilisation on Crete, installed perhaps the earliest personal baths. The Romans, of course, popularised baths, using marble and sophisticated plumbing. When that civilisation crumbled all ideas of personal hygiene went with it and humanity pretty much stewed in its own pungent juices until the 19th century. Even then, immersion in a vessel of water for the purposes of cleansing the body was less popular than attempting to contain the stench of stale body odour with an additional layer of underwear.

For many of us the purpose of a bath is not, of course, to get clean. (That’s not to say that it makes you dirty. The claims — levelled by some of our sniffier friends across the Atlantic and on the Continent — that taking a bath is a disgusting habit because it means reclining in your own grime, is silly. Few of us are that filthy when we jump in the tub.) Bathing is a therapy, a way of easing aches and pains, relaxing weary muscles and helping a tired brain to expand after a day of contracting. We don’t expect that we will suddenly come up with a modern Archimedes principle. Or, indeed, remember exactly what it was about bodies and fluids that Archimedes puzzled out. But Eureka moments do come in the bath. A blast under a shower is better for displacing cobwebs and helping the brain to focus on immediate tasks at the start of the day. But if you need to ponder a knottier, big-picture problem, a long evening wallow in the bath is the best way of going about it.

A hot bath is the place to dream. During his exile on St Helena, Napoleon spent endless hours in the bath, replaying Waterloo, fantasising about escape.

The bath can be the place for other, friskier fantasies, too, whether accompanied or alone. For much of the 20th century it was popularly believed that a woman should never get into the bath after a male member (no pun intended) of the household. The fear was that if he had been abluting himself a little too vigorously she might be in danger of impregnation. The famous paternity case involving Lord Ampthill gave this myth widespread credence. He filed for divorce after his wife produced a son, even though the marriage had not been consummated. It was suggested that she had conceived after using a sponge in a bath they had shared.

Friends of the Earth say that the Barnet bath initiative “is probably the shape of things to come”. But is it really? We are always being told that showers use less water than baths. Thames Water says that one bath uses 80 litres of water and is the equivalent of two five-minute showers. But power showers can use more water than baths. I doubt many people will trade in their power showers, and why should they? Ordinary showers are a false economy. Trying to get clean under the feeble jet can take all day. This morning I put the plug in the bath as I stood under the power shower. I washed more quickly than usual and did not loiter. The shower lasted four minutes and the tub was as full as if I had drawn a bath.

Giving councils power to decide whether people have baths in their houses is ridiculous and unnecessary. Much simpler would be to give everyone water meters and charge them properly. Water conservation would quickly improve. In the meantime I’m sticking with baths. But I’m prepared to keep the situation under review. The merits of brief, economical showers versus long, luxurious baths or long, luxurious showers versus brief, economical baths, will need some more thought. And I know just the place for that.

Hooliganism in the opera house

I warmed to Roberto Alagna after he stormed off the stage at La Scala because he was booed during Verdi’s Aida. Alagna is a classic volatile tenor, and long may he continue to be. Opera audiences are notoriously fickle and long may they continue to be. On this occasion both sides went too far, but my sympathy lies with Alagna. Yes, he was unprofessional to let the isolated booing in Milan get to him. But it is easy to understand his fury. He may be over-hyped but that is no excuse for catcalls during his first aria. Opera buffs can be hideously full of their own opinions. Here that went beyond discourtesy and became high-end hooliganism that somehow seems more moronic for occurring in the world’s top opera house rather than in a football ground.

Ready, steady . . .

Nigella Lawson speaks, and the world goes mad for goose fat. Sales of the stuff have doubled ever since the voluptuous kitchen goddess breathed the words “goose fat” to Jonathan Ross. There’s a rush like this every year. We’re in panic buying mode and a couple of words trigger a stampede. One year Jamie Oliver said “brandy butter” or something similar. Delia made an aside about “deep-fried mistletoe” and the M25 was closed in both directions for three days. One wonders if Nigella ever gets tempted to indulge in a bit of seasonal mischief. You know, go on Parky and say “turnip croquettes” or “refried beans and rabbit entrails stuffing”. My tip is to put real mince in your mince pies this year. Seriously, it’s going to be massive. Quick, get to the butchers. Go now! Now!