Connor
The en-suite bathroom attached to Edward's bedroom in the West Wing was roughly the size of my first flat in Liverpool.
It was a masterclass in aggressive opulence: white-and-gold Calacatta marble from floor to ceiling, heated floor tiles, a freestanding soaking tub that could easily fit four people, and a glass-enclosed walk-in shower large enough to host a squad meeting. It had twin overhead rain-shower heads, six body jets embedded in the walls, and a polished marble bench running along the back.
It was, by any reasonable standard, a magnificent piece of architecture.
It was also an absolute hazard when you put two professional rugby players inside it who had just completed a ten-kilometer sprint and refused to act like grown adults.
