I love her.
It was a package of treatments, called the Winter Warmer. I
absolutely love this kind of treat. But
I’m not going to lie, I have a certain amount of stress in the run-up.
On arrival at the spa, we had to fill in a two page form. As usual, there was a huge list of illnesses that
you had to say whether you’d ever suffered from. I was so worried about what the masseuse
would think about my fatty whiteness that I lost the head and ticked all the
boxes. They must have been wondering how
I was standing up at all.
I had to confess my stupidity at the reception desk, before
the woman came to show us to the dressing room.
We were terrified of her.
She looked like she never smiled, the kind of woman who doesn’t need to
raise her voice to get her own way.
“You vil felow me.”
What? I looked at Laura,
who calmly followed the woman.
“You vil do a fevor.”
I was baffled. “We’re doing her a favour.”
“Oh. Right”
“You vil share a lecker.”I wasn’t so quick to agree this one. What on earth is a lecker? I wondered. It doesn’t sound like anything we should agree to without knowing exactly what we were letting ourselves in for.
We stared at her blankly.
“A lecker! A lecker! We are most busy.”
Shite. I hadn’t a
clue, and was fairly sure Laura didn’t either.
Eventually the woman caught a locker door by the latch and shook it
violently, to show what she meant.
Oh, a locker. Thank
God for that.
“Of course, anything you like.”
She sighed and left us to get into our robes.
When the door opened again, a gaggle of glamorous (and by
that I mean skinny) girls walked in, holding their robes and slippers. I decided not to make the confession I was
about to make to Laura. That I’d briefly
wondered when I was packing my overnight bag that morning whether I could get
away with being massaged in Spanx. We
went to our treatment rooms, and prepared to be spoiled.
The girl came in, and invited me to sit in a large chair,
and to start relaxing. I don’t enjoy
that part. Someone sitting looking at
me, and telling me to relax. What am I
supposed to do? Let my head fall
sideways like an idiot?
“I’m just going to talk you through your treatments.”
I knew what my treatments were. A frangipani cocoon, a neck, back and shoulder
massage, and a half hour facial. I’d
spent the previous month googling these treatments on an almost daily basis, so
excited was I by the coming treat.
“Good idea. I think you should know, I’m not great with
facials.”
“What do you mean?”“No offence, but I find that the therapist, during a facial, is too near me.”
“Right. Well the
thing is, it’s almost impossible to do a facial from a distance.”
“I realise that.
Look, it’s not you, it’s me.” I
wondered how I got into the classic break up conversation with a complete stranger.
“I don’t like my face being touched.”
“Are you claustrophobic?”
“No. I just have
personal boundaries.”
She went to speak to her supervisor.
When she came back, she told me we could leave out the
facial. She’d been hoping to give me a full body massage instead, but her
manager had offered a scalp massage.
I was thrilled.
There’s only so much fat you can have on your scalp. My thighs, however, are another matter
entirely.
It was fabulous. It
started with body brushing, then being cocooned in frangipani lotion, then the
massage, the scalp massage, and finally a full body balm. She finished by wrapping me in warm towels,
and going off to get me some water.
Utter bliss. Obviously,
at the start of every massage, I worry that while the woman is massaging me, my
fat is running along in front of her hands and making her nauseous. Once the effect of the massage starts kicking
in, I stop worrying. By the time I was
left cocooned, it was all over, and I was in a state of semi-conscious
relaxation.
Eventually she came back to lead me to the relaxation room. It was almost dark, with plinky plonky music,
accompanied by drippy watery sounds, endless candles, and fabulous leather beds
that came with remote controls. I was
invited to relax, and to partake freely of water and fruit.
I was barely lying down when Laura arrived. Poor Laura had had a rough night on Friday,
her toddler has a vomiting bug, and we both assumed she’d be taking a quick
nap.
She didn’t have a chance though. The beauticians were bringing other women in
and out, speaking in hushed tones, and offering fruit every few seconds. Also, I’d started playing with the remote
control of the bed. You could move the
head or the foot of the bed up or down, to find your perfect relaxation
position. Sadly, I’d decided to explore
the controls fully, and had raised both my head and my feet, so by the time
poor Laura looked around the little curtain I was sort of folded double, and
struggling a bit, to be honest.
The girl came back in, offered us more water, which we
declined, and left.
We sat in silence for a few seconds. I was being good to
make up for my foolishness, and I thought Laura might be asleep. Sometimes, I get a bit uncomfortable in
“relaxation rooms”. The pressure to
relax is so great (Am I relaxed? But am
I relaxed enough? What can I do to be
more relaxed?) that I actually get a bit stressed about relaxing. I was trying to fight off this feeling when
Laura spoke.
“Although I am quite thirsty”
“Will I get you some water?”
“No, not that kind of thirsty.”
“Oh good. What kind
of thirsty are you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe
cider thirsty.”
“Great. Will we go
for a pint?”
Up we got, into our clothes, and fled.
It was about half five in the evening. Laura had just had a facial, and I’m insanely
lazy, so we decided not to bother with makeup.
Which meant we didn’t have to dress up.
We went to two bars, the first was good, the second was possibly my
favourite pub ever. It, and everything
in it, was ancient. Except the
clientele, who were mostly younger than me.
We sat on two high stools at the bar, drinking and talking about
people. When we got curious about one of
the bottles behind the bar, they gave us a spiced rum to test. I say us, but Laura was in the ladies, and
obviously I thought she’d be getting her own, so I downed it like a shot. The barman wasn’t amused. And didn’t give me another one for Laura, the
mean yoke.
We had another drink to wash it down. It was pretty disgusting. And then another pint, for the road. And then another shot, to finish the night
off. I think it was about ten o’clock.
The upshot was that we were in bed, drunk, having had our midnight
chips, by eleven o’clock.
I have mastered the art of how to accept my age and still go
out on a Saturday night. I’m giving up
on high heeled shoes and any attempt at glamour. I’m going to go to old man pubs in the middle
of the evening and be drunk by the time the cool people arrive. It’s a great system.
And we were both refreshed and hangover free when we woke up
about ten hours later. Best Saturday
ever.
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