After a frantic week, in which I became the first person to successfully appeal against an appeal and Grandad became the first person to be voted out of the allotment, I had another Saturday of my touchline ban to serve. The man at the house of the Terminally bewildered that serves the Football authority, bemused at my request for my appeal to be thrown out but eventually succumbing to female charm and wit and reinstating my touchline ban.
Sanctimonious Sid - Husband is still peeved. Tarnished the good name of the club and all that. But hey! I’ve got some seriously steamy treatments booked. Where football is concerned I am full of disrepute and I deserve my ban.
So, it's out the door with the farcical footballers and off to the shops with teenage daughter. Flip Flops, towel, swimsuit and goggles packed and off to the Spa.
Ginny picked me up along with Maya and Georgie and we entered the sanctuary of a football free environment. Off with the clothes and the outside world and on with the flip-flops, robes and our first scented candle of the day…. Heaven I’m in Heaven.
The morning schedule was fairly relaxed, with no treatments booked until the afternoon. Heading for the pool and a swim and a chat, lots of cane furniture, off white cushions and plenty of greenery, magazines to read, and two well-positioned and well-proportioned young members of staff on hand to ensure our safety and tend our every need. If the Olympics ever introduced the combined event of swimming and chatting we would have it in the bag, both individual medals and relay. After a swim it was off to the shed to sit under various coloured bulbs that promise to improve skin tone, well being and wealth, I don’t get this bit and am never quite sure as to whether we have turned the thing on.
Lunch followed, with a nice bit of fish and a glass of white Rioja, before we split up for our individual treatments. Georgie and Maya were having powdered Octopus beak rubbed into their eyelids for that sparkly eyed “I live under the sea” look, Ginny was due to go out to a party that evening so had opted for the complete clams’ liver facial. I was due to be “de knotted “ in the massage room. After the stress of the previous month I had opted for the “rough and ready” option and prepared to be pummelled.
The room was empty when I entered; I removed my robe and lay down on my front on the soft massage table. A little zizzy from lunch I momentarily drifted off, to be awoken by the click of the door as the man with the hands entered. Starting in the middle of my back he worked his magic up and down my spine. Firmly and with some urgency he melted the knots sitting in my upper back gently working his way down over my Gluteus very maximus to my thighs and calves; up and down, round and round, practiced actions to melt the stiffest of sinews.
But there was something about these hands. Hands that I had felt before. The touch, the grip, the easy action. I raised my head and turned to complement my Mark Anthony and…
We stared for a second before…
“What are you doing? This is not dancing, Stephanie…… wha”
Guido stepped forward and handed me my robe, I swung round onto the side of the table. He and Stephanie had been cleared of the allegations of lewd behaviour on a package tour yacht excursion and had returned home. Unable to restart their dance class after the publicity, they were keeping their heads down and pursuing other interests until the dust settled and they could return to their life long passion – dance. I didn’t remark that they seemed to have a few other sordid life long passions as the image of husband in a Jacuzzi with Brandi and Stephanie popped into my head. But instead assured him that I would love to attend any classes they put on in the future, the dancing had been fantastic.
Over my shock at the identity of my touchy tormentor and with my session still twenty minutes short of closing I suddenly came over all strong and empowered, maybe I was a little too relaxed, maybe the massage a little too good but I beckoned Guido to the table, I was the customer, he was there to serve, tossing back my head, I leaned back on the table..
“So, Mr nimble feet….do you do any extras?”
“Not that Numb Nuts, Dance! ………..I want to dance!”
And so we did, an unusual fandango in flip-flops and a restricted space, but dance it was, relaxed, steamy sensual and passionate. I left the room in a state of ecstasy, greeting the girls who unaware of my massage room exertions commented on how well I looked and vowed to book a massage on our next trip. Another hour of reading magazines on chairs that wobble before it was time to go, and so with a whiff of Clam in the air we returned home, the car followed by seagulls for much of the journey home and a reintroduction to life, as we know it.