Indulgence

This has nothing to do with traveling on the train but I thought I must tell you about the weekend we had in Bowral just before Christmas.
However I warn you, do not read further if you are adverse to reading about people succumbing to gluttony, participating in pressing of the flesh of the most mysterious kind, self indulgently wallowing in luxurious surroundings and, damn it, bragging about it!!!
My best friend and her husband took me and mine to Bowral, to a place called Milton Park for some much earned and looked forward to pampering. I had no idea what she had planned. This is my account:
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Oh my Lord what a place, our garden rooms were adjoining and through the French doors we were treated to a view of the biggest fountain (aside from the one in Hyde Park) that I have seen in a while and manicured lawns, formal gardens and massive oak and pine trees. Our large rooms consisted of a king sized bed covered in about 20 pillows and white linen, a plasma TV, huge bath, and a couple of comfy lounge chairs looking out at the garden and fountain. We could throw open the doors and step out onto a little stone stoop, then have a leisurely stroll around the garden or have a cup of tea whilst sitting in a really comfy chair gazing nonchalantly at the pleasant surrounds and taking deep breaths of the softly scented country air (which I did do, twice).
AND once ensconced, who cares how much it costs – this is better than drugs (not that I would know of course, I’m just guessing).
At 2pm, after the four of us had been lolling all over the bed and drinking the champagne that I had thoughtfully provided; we got a phone call telling us that we had an appointment at the spa in ½ an hour. An eyebrow cocked at Mez got me nothing but an eyebrow cocked right back so I had to just sit there wondering what the hell she had cooked up for us.
A HOT ROCK MASSAGE!!!! Is what! You know, I never really thought about how unpampered I was until that first hot rock hit my solar plexus. Any coherent thought just passed out of my mind as I gave myself up to the utter decadence of a full body hot rock.
The worst nightmare of a 48 year old, unsophisticated, fat earth mother is baring the said 48 year old, unsophisticated, faaaaaaaaaat carcass to an unsuspecting masseuse. One expects them to recoil in horror and revulsion or worse apply a fixed smile on their chops and suffer through this insult to the aesthetic symmetry of the human body. I’m not sure what is worse really, them touching me or me looking at them touching me. Anyway, at first I was in seven kinds of humiliation lying on my back, naked but for a pair of paper knickers on a skinny little table, barely covered by a towel that, frankly, was hardly bigger than a hand towel, waiting for God knows what (because Mez didn’t tell me). In fact my imagination was running wild by this time and I was lying there thinking all kinds of self depreciating thoughts like: ‘I hope she doesn’t mind pummelling cottage cheese’ or ‘OMG both my boobs are under my armpits’ or ‘I hope she has a big enough egg slice on the fork lift that has to turn me over’ or ‘I’m overflowing off this darn ironing board’ or ‘ I hope this bloody ironing board has reinforced legs’ or ‘ I hope her workers comp insurance covers being struck blind by the corpulent, waxen body before her’. I was left alone with my thoughts for so long that I thought she had probably taken a fast butchers through a hidden peep hole and was on her way back to Germany quicker than I can put on 3 kilos.
Then Amanda walked in.
Amanda was not a small girl, in fact: she was almost as tall as Paul. So now I’m intimidated and humiliated and about as relaxed as a hungry cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. I was fantasizing about the most painful death I could possibly inflict on Mez, when Amanda placed a piping hot towel over my feet, a moderately cooler one over my eyes and two hot rocks on my stomach and then proceeded to massage my right foot and leg with warm scented oil and a hot rock. By the time she got to my knee I was well and truly in seventh heaven and was profusely apologising mentally to my Best Friend. Some are not impressed by a hot rock massage but I was, I loved every agonisingly embarrassing moment of it. Throughout the whole procedure I had a lovely warm towel covering my eyes (so that I couldn’t see her pi**ing herself laughing and taking photos to upload onto the web with all the appropriate captions) which made the procedure a lot less personal and a lot more relaxing.
I wont even go into the hilariousness or hideousness of trying to roll over on a table about as wide as a fence paling or of the mounds of relaxed flesh flying all over the place as I settled back down on my stomach (think stone thrown in pool of still water).
The other side was even more pleasurable, especially my shoulders and neck. I actually fell asleep I know this because I woke myself up snoring twice (you know, once you are embarrassed enough it just doesn’t matter anymore)(although if I had farted I would have had to get the hell out of there).
After the massage, she gave me a facial – also a wonderful experience (warm green teabags on eyes mmmmmmmm). By the time it was all over and I was back out in the dressing room 2 ½ hours had passed and I was feelin’ mellow.
Mez came out at the same time as me and after we had both stopped laughing at each of our experiences and appearances we went out and waited for the boys.

Next: a swim in the pool. A heated indoor pool no less. Set in a pavilion ringed by massive trees and ferns, tiled to within an inch of its life, big fluffy soft white towels on tap and the pool – oh the pool. Warm, all of us creating an oil slick from the massage oil (heeee sorry Mr pool cleaner) but then, that kept us afloat, no need to work at staying on top of the water.

A hot shower and a rest was in order as we were exhausted from all our exertions, hmmmmm lying on king sized monster soft bed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

We were awakened at 6.30pm by a reminder that we had a dinner reservation in the restaurant. Thank goodness I had packed glad rags.
Dinner was a gastronomical delight although the dinner plates were a little disconcerting. I noticed that the plates were one and the same as the slate tiles that they were re-doing the roof on the main building with. Not a bad concept actually, I just hope they washed them properly. Each course was accentuated by a small intervention of sorbet or soup or smoked salmon with a lemon infusion or petit fours or a superb local wine. Just add that to the blubber would you – thanks so much.

We went back to our rooms after dinner, had a cuppa and fell into a deep dreamless sleep until about 7am when we backed up for a full breakfast. I can never get my Bircher Muesli to taste that good. And the eggs, bacon, tomatoes…………….

The clincher to all this was, of course, that Mez and Chris paid for the whole thing. I still cant sleep properly when I think how much it would have cost them and it outshone a picnic by 100,000 watts. We tried to pay for our bit but Mez had beaten us to the post by pre paying for everything before we had even set foot on the premises. I can’t tell you how much it meant to us that Mez and Chris had planned our whole weekend, every detail was attended too, so much thought had gone into it.
We had such a good time that all four of us have decided to go back again this year, same time, same rooms and please God, same massage.