Okay, see if you can tell me the difference between these two photos:
? <=> ?
The answer, dear friends, is 75 minutes of excruciating pain. Today was our relaxation day too.
Maggie had gone for a reflexology treatment earlier in the day and so I thought, I'll go for the relaxing back and shoulders massage, while M treats herself to a facial/ skin pack/ thingy and head massage. We were taken to our separate rooms at the hotel spa. My masseuse was a harmless-looking little old lady, full three score and ten, who wordlessly pointed at the midget's pyjama set neatly arranged at the foot of the mattress on the floor and left me to change. On her return, she proceeded to kneel on the back of my thighs and pummel my back. I should explain at this point that my back is a veritable turtle's carapace of frozen muscles and stuck stuck stuck tendons. I therefore proceed on the assumption that I deserve whatever pain comes my way and it's got to be therapeutic, right? Well, I bit the pillow, whimpered *almost* soundlessly and just endured it for over an hour. Some of the manipulations were quite pleasant as moments of relief, as for example when she bent my thighs back over the small of my back, bringing back childhood memories of watching Mick McManus and Jackie Pallo wrestling on Saturday afternoon's World of Sport. Other moments, as she attempted to separate muscle and bone, are perhaps best glossed over here.
Whatever happened to Dickie Davies anyway?
Maggie had gone for a reflexology treatment earlier in the day and so I thought, I'll go for the relaxing back and shoulders massage, while M treats herself to a facial/ skin pack/ thingy and head massage. We were taken to our separate rooms at the hotel spa. My masseuse was a harmless-looking little old lady, full three score and ten, who wordlessly pointed at the midget's pyjama set neatly arranged at the foot of the mattress on the floor and left me to change. On her return, she proceeded to kneel on the back of my thighs and pummel my back. I should explain at this point that my back is a veritable turtle's carapace of frozen muscles and stuck stuck stuck tendons. I therefore proceed on the assumption that I deserve whatever pain comes my way and it's got to be therapeutic, right? Well, I bit the pillow, whimpered *almost* soundlessly and just endured it for over an hour. Some of the manipulations were quite pleasant as moments of relief, as for example when she bent my thighs back over the small of my back, bringing back childhood memories of watching Mick McManus and Jackie Pallo wrestling on Saturday afternoon's World of Sport. Other moments, as she attempted to separate muscle and bone, are perhaps best glossed over here.
Whatever happened to Dickie Davies anyway?
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