WISH UPON A SPA

PREVIOUSLY UNFAMILIAR WITH THE MANSCAPING MENU, A FRESHLY POLISHED INFORMER HAS DISCOVERED HE’S PARTIAL TO A SPOT OF PAMPERING

While the Lotto would have been better, winning a lucky door prize of a half-day spa treatment wasn’t half-day bad. Mind you, Informer’s not sure the staff agreed because, when I fronted up at reception in my Speedos and scuffs, well, the looks on their faces.

Informer should clarify that this was not one of those establishments advertised in the more tawdry sections of the classifieds, generally with a picture of someone curled around a pole or sucking a Chupa-Chup.

Anyhoo, the staff spent an age checking the validity of my voucher, seemingly calling in everyone from the cleaners to Interpol before accepting there was no option but to honour the document, prepare the oils, sterilise the loofah and ascertain whether the work experience person might come in on time and a half plus danger money.

In the end, my designated kneadersqueezer-prodder-greaser-upper was very nice, very professional and eventually stopped crying. However, the start of proceedings was slightly confusing because I wasn’t aware my prize included acupuncture. Turns out it didn’t, simply that my attendant was still clutching the short straw and I was copping the pointy end.

I wasn’t worried when next she draped a steaming hot towel over my face — better that than the pillow Mrs Informer tries — although when she removed it my blackheads had sprouted. As a gorgeous facial massage ensued, she said this part of the treatment would be very relaxing and it was OK to doze off. I think they prefer clients like me to fall asleep because that means they can nick out the back for a retch, a fag and a snifter before returning to wake us up and declare, with jazz hands aflutter: “Finished!”

I remained defiantly conscious as her expert hands worked their magic from skulltop to forehead to ears to cheeks to ulcerous sunspots to chin. Then, as the procedure visited other parts, I became the luxuriating personification of that song on Play School we used to sing with the kids, about heads and shoulders, knees and toes.

Actually, my knees are the bee’s knees for someone of my mileage. It’s my hips and back that have been troubling me of late.

Never fear, my attentive attendant went all in with strategic heat, committed pummelling, some herbal lathering and, for all I know, prayer. The result was, is, the best I’ve moved for months.

All too soon for Informer, though surely not soon enough for my attendant, the wonderful hands-on part of my prize was done, leaving only the less savoury human soup that is the spa bath, followed by the choreography of dropped towels, flicked sweat and bum cheeks stuck to the wooden seat squelching that is the sauna. Informer opted for a shower and I emerged spritely and sparkly as Tinkerbell.

Had it not been for that lucky door, I might never have considered a spa treatment. Rest assured, experience is Informer’s informant and so I shall be back, be-Speedoed and bescuffed, on a regular basis.

And while the spa staff may not be thrilled by this prospect, to paraphrase something Shakespeare wrote in a succinct massage message: there’s my rub.

“WHEN I FRONTED UP AT RECEPTION IN MY SPEEDOS AND SCUFFS, WELL, THE LOOKS ON THEIR FACES.”