The spa industry is positively obscene. I've just come back from a day at the Sanctuary. This was a gift from my husband who should know me better. In desperation he took advice from a bunch of twenty something year olds at work ( all smaller than a size 8).I'm pushing 50 and haven't seen a size 8 since my teens. Never been a spa bunny , never will be. Doubtless there are a breed of women out there who thrive on that sort of experience.
Here's the opening paragraph in their brochure, written without a hint of irony ...
' Every woman deserves to feel like a goddess from time to time.' Sadly this is unlikely to happen at their spa. I really don't want to sound ungrateful but if you've never been to the Sanctuary , think London in the 80's, white paint turned off white over the years, plastic cups of lukewarm water, last weeks Hello magazine on the slightly shabby coffee tables. The champagne brunch was a dollop of tasteless scrambled egg served with a slice of vacuum packed smoked salmon and a lettuce leaf turning brown at the edges. Pudding if you can call it that was on the same plate , a dollop of youghurt served with a tinny little teaspoon washed down with a glass of cava ( not champagne) in a plastic glass .
My facial was administered by a dull therapist and smelt of slighly rancid oil as did the stiff bathrobes and everything else in the place. Too much black mould on the tiled swimming pool for my liking.
My idea of a spa is somewhere on a remote island with an infinity pool spilling into the Indian Ocean and an array of freshly sliced fruits attractively piled on a rustic platter. Not some shabby backstreet affair where the only sound you hear over the tedious whalesongs on an endless loop piped into every treatment room is the wail of an occassional siren out on the street.
What un ungrateful cow I am. I really don't deserve a sweet husband who treated me to what he thought would be ' realaxation and pure escapism' .... the brochure's words , not mine.