You should have told him you thought it was one of the old galvanised metal baths without a plughole. The ones that usually hung up on a hook in the yard.
For the first few years of my life, we lived a a tiny cottage with only one tap in the kitchen.
Once a week, the bath was taken down and the kitchen fire stoked up to boil the water. The bath was placed in front of the kitchen fire and the girls were washed first because they had long hair that took foreever to dry. Then the boys were washed in the same water but with some extra bolied water added to warm the bath up.
While my brother and I washed, our older sisters used to stand naked in front of the fire with the towels arrayed behind them and face the fire while my mother brushed out their hair and dried it by the fire.
Later, after the kids were put to bed and more water had been boiled, my mum and dad got washed the same way.

Then when I was four, my transvestism was discovered and my older sister refused to be seen naked by me so the bath time became an issue. (She was sixteen by then anyway.)
By the time I was six, the logistical problems of my older sister's privacy at bath time had become too serious so I was 'put away' because I was deemed to be causing the problems.

I remember the first night in the psychiatric unit when I was put into a 'proper bath' with taps and a plug-hole with a plug in it.
I couldn't get over the fun of putting my hand over the plug hole and feeling the suction.

The proper hospital bath with taps and a plughole was probably the only advantage to being put away. Oh and the room was warm!

I know it's easier to look back and wish you'd said this or that to the doctor, but you should have told that presumptious twat that you thought he meant a galvanised bath because he hadn't mentioned the plug.

I know my father used to empty the bath with a bucket until it was light enough for my mother and him to carry the bath out into the garden and tip the remaining water out.

There was nothing funny about bathtimes.
Beverly.