I've realised that I have simple - often guilt related - pleasures. And when faced with some rare free hours when I have no obligations, nowhere to be be, no one to meet and nothing to catch up on (or conversely when I have a deadline and loads to write) I find myself drawn to the bathroom. I was brought up in a Victorian terrace house, so I never took regular showers until I left home at 18 - soaking in a bath is my default for feeling clean and for a rare moment of privacy from having a shared bedroom with my twin. I live in a shared flat, so there is still that sense of wilful deliberate selfishness when I spend hours in the tub, but I see it as necessary to my mental wellbeing. I can spend hours sitting in my own Radox cocktail, reading a book. It's my form of meditation, the same way I like to let my mind wander when I go swimming, except this time I have fiction as a floatation guide.
I can understand the objection to reading in the bath, as it does trash the books. But I long since let go of my book reverence, and replaced it with a form of tough love. Books are meant to be read, and much like the skinny chef or the sober barman, a pristine book left on the shelf shouldn't be trusted.