Dearest reader, for what I am about to reveal, blame Nelson. It may seem like I have gone to ground recently but this is not so. It has been a very busy time at Spindle Towers. The Tiny Terror has been trotting about in the land of Up t’North and has abandoned myself and Hector to a week of peace, tranquility and forbidden snackettes. The absence of her crashing and capering about has been most restful.
Her trip was to see the amiable rabble that is known as her family, a merry band, led by my good pal grandad Tom. At the end of the week there was to be a grand wedding, which myself and Hector were also invited to. My Vera Wang was at the dry cleaners in preparation and my slingbacks were being reheeled after the paintball debacle last week. I had been feeling terribly jaded lately you see by this hot weather, and a party was an excellent excuse to let my ears down.
The complication began with a phonemail from Nelson – as invariably, complications tend to begin with. In the interests of continuing to curry feminine favour he had recently decided to treat himself and lady Hester to a Spa Weekend, but she was not able to make it due to some Christening ‘After Party’ at Clarence house with her old pal Camilla. This was some time ago but she was still recovering from a very heavy weekend of cigars and canapés, and was still unwilling and unable to leave her nest of cool pillows and her cold compress.
The conclusion of a long and animated conversation was that I was to accompany Nelson in her absence. I must say that this was a whole new world to me but he assured me that it would be tip top fun, and we were off to Chewton Glen in the New Forest.
Our arrival was greeted by a throng of happy and serene faces who piloted us through to welcoming refreshments. We sat in a sunny bay window, sipping our drinks, me, a mojito and Nelson, a detox vegetable cocktail, as we perused the menu of all the treatments we could have.
I found myself inexplicably drawn to one treatment that went by the name of ‘Quiro Golf’ and was basically a deep body and facial massage using a ‘unique and effective technique with golf balls’. I sincerely hoped that they weren’t launched off a tee. It promised ‘absolute relaxation from head to toe’. Well, how could a girl resist? I was led into a softly lit room and invited to recline gracefully on a white bed covered in fluffy white towels, with the soundtrack of tropical rain tinkling in the background. It took a little while for us to arrange my wayward limbs but with the help of Marcus the Marvel I eventually got there. The trouble is that I do have rather long and uncontrollable legs. As soon as he gently pushed my back left leg onto the bed, my front right one popped out at a right angle – and so on. Limbs suitably placed, I spied Marcus striding towards me, and he whipped out a large bottle of massage oil from behind his back and waved a bag of golf balls at me. Overcome with an emotion that I could not name, I fainted. It would seem that Marcus took this as a sign of acquiescence and when I awoke I had a number of golf balls balanced on various parts of my anatomy. This may or may not come as a surprise to you dear reader but this is a situation I have not been in before so I closed my eyes and thought of dear old England.
Nelson, plumped for a hot stone massage which was apparently remarkably relaxing until he twitched in his sleep and one lone stone ventured down and ended up nestling amongst the parts which he holds dreadfully dear to him. He squealed a ‘greyhound scream of death’ and fell off the side of the bed, dragging the towels with him and was discovered bundled up like a mummified, oiled wombat. He was hastily unwound from the towels, Scooby Doo ghost style, and emergency ice cubes were applied to his vitals. I am not sure how he was going to explain the scorch marks to Lady H though.
After the discomfort of the burning pebble, he was treated to a complimentary body wrap – even though it was entirely his fault, I may add. After my golf ball experience had finished, I was wheeled into his room in my wicker bath chair to see Nelson wrapped tightly in clay covered bandages from head to tail…well..they left out the aforementioned scorched particles to breathe and settle down, which in itself was an unexpected sight for me. He had obviously taken a shine to the mummified look.
He heard me as I was wheeled over and shifted on the bed to greet me and it was then that we discovered that some bandages had applied an enormous amount of pressure to his mid section. He spontaneously broke wind, presumably not helped by the vegetable cocktail he had quaffed earlier. It was a high velocity effort and made the ends of his bandages flap about. Naturally he found this hilarious, I however did not as they left me in the room with him and the vegetable miasma and shut the door quite firmly. In retaliation I hummed Jerry Lee Lewis to him.
I must say that as my first experience of a spa that it really was a marvel. The people there were jolly nice, even Marcus. We left with a skip in our step and a large jar of burn cream…and to think I nearly missed all of that for a wedding.
Speaking of the wedding, I have now had an account from the Tiny Terror. I shall report thus. It was a splendid day, the bride was a beautiful elfin with magical freckles and the groom remained a grinning, happy moppet. The night was rounded off by an absolute legendary display of dancing by the whole family, led of course by my Grandad Tom. Jagger has nothing on him. He gained many new fans that evening and there is indeed video documentary evidence.
Pip pip my friend, a sherry beckons.