This morning my friend and I took ourselves off for my birthday treat - a De-Stress Full Body Massage at a local salon, the
Ark Spa. I've never had a proper massage before so this was one to knock off the bucket-list.
But last night something occurred to me.
Having a massage means getting butt-naked. Don't ask why that only just occurred to me.
Now don't get me wrong, personal hygiene is way up there as a number one priority in my life but, people, it's winter. The time of heavy jeans, boots, lots of layers, thick jumpers...... and infrequent depilation. Yep, the legs, the armpits and the bikini line were in need of some desperate attention if I was going to save any face.
And, AND...underwear!!? How could I go to a spa that no less an august newspaper as the Sunday Times describes as being frequented by the
"Well-heeled Wimbledonites and the racket weary top-seeded tennis players and their beautiful other halves during Wimbledon Fortnight" with grey knickers and a well-worn, if comfortable, bra?
Well I couldn't could I? Cue a rapid emptying of the underwear draw to find bra and knickers that were at least the same colour.
And what was really funny was that as we were driving there, my friend confided that she had gone through exactly the same routine that morning!
But despite this being a top-end salon, the staff were not in the least bit snooty, made us incredibly welcome and were very friendly and relaxed. The massage was amazing and I'm going back in 10 days time for a facial. I could get used to this sort of life.