Bluebells and massage

The first bluebells are here! Now I usually think of these as arriving in April or May so that shows you how early we are this year. And while global warming might be ruining our planet, at least it shows that spring is on its way. And that is a cheering thought indeed.

On Saturday afternoon I had the second of my birthday massages. My mum and Himself gave me vouchers for the wonderful spa at a nearby hotel, and so I am able to have several massages – free!

One thing that struck me is how young the girls are – the masseuses, that is. Yes, I know this is a sure sign of Getting Old, but most of these girls are 20ish. They look at you as if you are no longer a member of the human race, and evidently eye my sagging skin and skinny frame with distaste. Having worked as a masseuse I know. As I know the unflattering comments that abound later. “Tubs of lard” was one at the place I used to work.

But this girl gave me a 5 second chat to ascertain whether I wanted aromatherapy oils to calm me down or buoy me up. I explained that I’m fairly hyper by nature, so calming would be better.

I had half an hour’s thorough neck, shoulders and back massage and got up feeling quite light headed. I recovered in their Rest Room – lay sipping a glass of iced water and reading a glossy magazine wondering where to place a couple of pieces I’d written on spec for a glossy that doesn’t want them.

I then went home, so reeking of Soothing Aromatherapy Oils that even Mollie sniffed at me nervously. That night I slept like a tree trunk (do they sleep?) and have been unable to function ever since. Life is like struggling through treacle, or brain high mud. As for brain cells – forget it. I left them with the twenty year old on the massage couch.

But I’d still go for another massage. Half an hour to have all the stresses and strains kneaded out of my body – bliss.

PS Mum - I hope you're reading this today. Hello and I love you. Keep practising your emails!

Pampering at a Price

Years ago a friend gave Himself a voucher for an Indian Head Massage for his birthday.

“I went in there to have a haircut and they gave me one of these as well,” he said. “I tell you, it’s better than sex.”

Coming from this particular man, that was saying something. But Himself, being of a suspicious nature when it comes to things alternative, declined the voucher. I don’t know what he thought an Indian Head Massage might do to him (scalp him?) but he viewed it with a mixture of fear and horror.

This year for Christmas Himself gave me a voucher at one of the hotels in Falmouth that has a health spa. Having looked at the brochure I realised that the voucher wasn’t going to cover the price of the cheapest ministration, but I kept quiet about that and booked myself in for an Indian Head Massage. It wasn’t till later that I remembered that endorsement, honest.

So on Saturday I went along. I was knackered and the thought of being pampered was like a dream come true.

Walking into this spa was like entering the health pages of a glossy magazine. Piped music floated forth from invisible speakers, tea lights danced in the soft light, and smells of sandalwood, peppermint, thyme and lavender mingled in the warm air.

I waited, propped on plump pillows, while Anne finished off her previous patient (not her words) and thought how nice it was to do nothing for once.

Then the door to the spa burst open and a young fellow dressed it sports kit (with very muscular legs) strode in followed by two giggling beauty therapists, all carrying a plateful of hot food. The pungent smell of gravy and roast potatoes wafted over in my direction and my stomach gave a large gurgle. Was I going to be fed as well?

Unfortunately the food wasn’t part of my treatment, and the three young ‘uns disappeared into some back room like the witches of Eastwick carrying their mouthwatering plates with them.

Just after that Anne appeared and took me through, and for the next half an hour my shoulders, back and neck were de-stressed. She massaged them with an aromatherapy oil that made me feel almost drugged I was so relaxed. Then she started no the head massage and – well, if you like having your head massaged at the hairdresser, you’ll love this. I could feel every ounce of tension being rung out of me. Wonderful and quite dizzymaking – in the nicest possible way.

Afterwards I was told to get dressed and lie down in the relaxation room where there were the equivalent of sun loungers, water (hot and cold), herbal teas and an abundant supply of magazines.

Heaven. I did say to Himself afterwards that this place was pampering at a price.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to be pampered in a bus shelter, are you?’

He has a point. So if ever you feel like being pampered, go for an Indian Head Massage. I can see what our friend meant. Almost.