Getting My Oats

Yesterday I made an oriental woman scream with fright , clutch her chest and say “velly  scaywee” three times in a row. She had to be helped to a chaise longue and given a glass of orange blossom water to recover.

I was enjoying a la-di-dah day spa in London, courtesy of some gift vouchers, and included on my busy, busy itinerary was a facial. In small print on my treatment card it read ‘type to be advised by your fully trained therapist’

Amazingly,  the anti ageing facial was the one she selected.

This treatment involved me laying on a hot water bed in the dark as a young Polish girl more than earned her minimum wage by layering my face with cream,  tissue, more cream, then a bandage,  warm oats (emulsifying, purifying, radiating, nourishing, detoxifying and energising oats, NOT Ready Brek)  more bandage, and the last of the oats

Next she  turned up the temperature of the bed to near boiling point, the room thermostat to 30 plus degrees and the volume of  the Peruvian pan pipe CD  to deafeningly high and left me alone with the instruction   “Chill, please.”  As soon as she left me alone I realised I needed  a ‘comfort stop’ – URGENTLY.

When you are at that point in your life when you are ready for an anti ageing facial the call of nature becomes a holler. So I leapt off the bed part wrapped in a towel and sporting spa issue paper knickers (the ones that that must be fitted for size on mice) I dashed across the hall.

The little lady from the Far East was coming out of the ladies as I headed in, and my oat loaded face was sliding off and the towel protecting my modesty wasn’t moving as fast as the rest of me, and  that’s how I made the poor woman swoon.

SWOON. George Clooney – did you hear that? It could have been you.

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