The tiles above the basin, sourced from a vintage market in Palermo, were the starting point for the decoration of Rosi de Ruig’s loo.

Paul Massey

Contemporary Italian designers and architects still play with the concept of the WC and its non-identical twin, making sure that their design is entirely complimentary and balanced. If a WC is minimal, quiet and wall-hung, so too will be its amico. If it is made from coloured porcelain – something the Italians have never shied away from – expect its supporting actor to be similarly shameless. And the colour choice is endless: Simas have over a dozen colours to choose from, from bright yellow Narciso to deep Menta blue. In Britain, despite CP Hart’s claims that the bidet is making a come-back, to suggest a bidet is to overcome a mountain of embarrassment. To ask for a coloured one would be insanitary.

Beyond the bidet (and with a nod to the marble slabs and ornate mosaics of the Caracalla baths of Ancient Rome) the Italians are masters of hard, hygienic, yet deeply decorative surfaces. It is here that they refuse to scrimp, covering entire walls – ideally the entire bathroom – with anything from slabs of Carrara marble to decorative tiles from the likes of Marazzi and Mutina. The cognoscenti will trawl the dealers of the Via dei Coronari for antique tiles, paying hundreds of euros per metre for the perfect 18^th century splashback. Tiled floors are non-negotiable, carpets entirely unthinkable.

And then there are the softer touches. The exquisite hand-made soaps, ideally but not exclusively made by nuns, white towels hand-stitched with contrast edging from Tuscany, waffle-weave dressing gowns with obligatory monogramming. Everything is understated and verging on traditional, with an appreciation for local, independent shops and a serious approach to quality. I complimented my Roman friend on her delectable towels and she nonchalantly told me they were from her favourite towel shop in Puglia, La Tessitura.

Returning home to my laundry cupboard full of white-ish towelling, to the water-stained plaster walls of my bathroom, and to my distinct lack of bidet, I have come to realise that perhaps I should try to be more like the Italians. I should make the bathroom a place of intense hygiene and rigorous design. The only problem is that in reality I am just too English. There are too many piles of books lying around, and I’m too embarrassed to talk to the plumber. Maybe I will start by frescoing the walls instead.