seemed to grow faster and faster and break more and more often. When I got them redone the warm glow would last for about a day, then I’d chip the nail varnish or the edges would get raggy and start catching in my jumper, or my own manky ridged nails would appear underneath the glossy fake ones and I’d try to pretend it wasn’t happening by painting over the join, but I’d make a right shambles of it and get polish everywhere, as far down as my first knuckle…
In the end the worry broke me and it just wasn’t worth it. Life’s too long. I’m back to my short, stubby, misshapen ones now and, contrary to what I once thought, it’s not so bad. At least now, in times of high tension, I’ve something to gnaw on.
First published in
Marie Claire,
July 2005
.
Knickers: A Vexed Area
It used to be holiday brochures. Whenever I was stressed or sad I’d take to the bed with a bundle of them (expensive ones, that you sometimes have to pay a fiver for), spend many happy hours in sunny places without any pesky jet lag or coming home to find my house had been burgled while I’d been away, and without fail, I’d be restored to myself. But recently my interest has specialized: I’ve become obsessed with spas. I read about them incessantly and it’s got so bad that I’m reluctant to go anywhere (city breaks, work trips, the post office) unless they have a spa attached. As a result I consider myself a bitteen of an expert; in fact, it could be my specialist subject on
Mastermind
. Let me share with you my hard-won knowledge.
1)
Appointment
. Vitally important, because how else will you get in and get rubbed? But beware! The bad news is that, based on my experience, there is a 58.7 per cent chance that your appointment will be gammied up. Sad but true. It must be all that essential oil in the air, softening brains and compromising concentration, but the number of times spa receptionists have lost my booking or booked me for the wrong day or for the wrong things… Interestingly, it happens just as much in the dear places as incheapo ones. In a fabulous spa on the Barrier Reef they had me booked in for everything I’d requested in my email. But they were so super-efficient that they’d done it
twice
, the two lots of treatments happening simultaneously. And they wanted to charge me for both. In the world-famous Sanctuary, when I arrived with my sister – both of us in
flitters
and gagging for a comforting touch – they had no record of us. No record AT ALL. Even though I’d given them my credit card details and rung to recon-firm – nada. (And they were fully booked, so they couldn’t fit us in.) Considering that most people go to spas because they’re feeling frayed and fragile, this IS NOT GOOD.
2)
Sound-proofing
. Or lack thereof. Many spas have walls so thin, you can hear the people breathing in the next room. They’re the good ones. In the bad ones, you can hear what the next-doors are
thinking
. In London’s extraordinarily beautiful Agua Spa (I mean, it really is, it looks like an artist’s impression of heaven), the treatment spaces are separated only by muslin curtains. Did you ever hear anything so stupid in all your life? While I was being reiki’d and desperately trying to relax and get my money’s worth, the woman in the next space was droning on to her therapist about how hard it was to be a mother, how she’d forgotten what a good night’s sleep and uncracked nipples felt like, how she was dreading sex again… For the entire hour I had to fight against leaping off the table, pushing aside the muslin curtain and shrieking, ‘Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!’
3)
Reflexology
. Don’t be fooled: it’s not the same as a foot massage. Reflexology is good for you and like most things that are good for you – leg-waxing, climbing Croagh Patrick, the truth about your dodgy boyfriend – it can hurt.
4)
Face-masks
. In most facials there comes a point when they cover your face with
In the end the worry broke me and it just wasn’t worth it. Life’s too long. I’m back to my short, stubby, misshapen ones now and, contrary to what I once thought, it’s not so bad. At least now, in times of high tension, I’ve something to gnaw on.
First published in
Marie Claire,
July 2005
.
Knickers: A Vexed Area
It used to be holiday brochures. Whenever I was stressed or sad I’d take to the bed with a bundle of them (expensive ones, that you sometimes have to pay a fiver for), spend many happy hours in sunny places without any pesky jet lag or coming home to find my house had been burgled while I’d been away, and without fail, I’d be restored to myself. But recently my interest has specialized: I’ve become obsessed with spas. I read about them incessantly and it’s got so bad that I’m reluctant to go anywhere (city breaks, work trips, the post office) unless they have a spa attached. As a result I consider myself a bitteen of an expert; in fact, it could be my specialist subject on
Mastermind
. Let me share with you my hard-won knowledge.
1)
Appointment
. Vitally important, because how else will you get in and get rubbed? But beware! The bad news is that, based on my experience, there is a 58.7 per cent chance that your appointment will be gammied up. Sad but true. It must be all that essential oil in the air, softening brains and compromising concentration, but the number of times spa receptionists have lost my booking or booked me for the wrong day or for the wrong things… Interestingly, it happens just as much in the dear places as incheapo ones. In a fabulous spa on the Barrier Reef they had me booked in for everything I’d requested in my email. But they were so super-efficient that they’d done it
twice
, the two lots of treatments happening simultaneously. And they wanted to charge me for both. In the world-famous Sanctuary, when I arrived with my sister – both of us in
flitters
and gagging for a comforting touch – they had no record of us. No record AT ALL. Even though I’d given them my credit card details and rung to recon-firm – nada. (And they were fully booked, so they couldn’t fit us in.) Considering that most people go to spas because they’re feeling frayed and fragile, this IS NOT GOOD.
2)
Sound-proofing
. Or lack thereof. Many spas have walls so thin, you can hear the people breathing in the next room. They’re the good ones. In the bad ones, you can hear what the next-doors are
thinking
. In London’s extraordinarily beautiful Agua Spa (I mean, it really is, it looks like an artist’s impression of heaven), the treatment spaces are separated only by muslin curtains. Did you ever hear anything so stupid in all your life? While I was being reiki’d and desperately trying to relax and get my money’s worth, the woman in the next space was droning on to her therapist about how hard it was to be a mother, how she’d forgotten what a good night’s sleep and uncracked nipples felt like, how she was dreading sex again… For the entire hour I had to fight against leaping off the table, pushing aside the muslin curtain and shrieking, ‘Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!’
3)
Reflexology
. Don’t be fooled: it’s not the same as a foot massage. Reflexology is good for you and like most things that are good for you – leg-waxing, climbing Croagh Patrick, the truth about your dodgy boyfriend – it can hurt.
4)
Face-masks
. In most facials there comes a point when they cover your face with
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