Date: 26 July 2015.
Location: Couch, essentially shipwrecked here having mopped myself into a corner whilst cleaning the flat.
“All wrong, all wrong!”
Well, great. Just what you want to hear whilst naked and vulnerable on a table. I’m at the beginning of a Thai massage with stocky Bangkokian Qu’an and the woman has hands like heaven — and elbows like studded rolling pins.
“Your body all wrong!”
Yeah. We’re not friends just yet.
I snuffle a protest into the hole in the massage table.
“Very tight, very knotty, all wrong.”
I snuffle my defence: “Itbrrrork.” It’s been bad at work. Qu’an tuts and starts to work into my spine with the points of her elbows. I cry out. She ignores me.
I sense our friendship is just not meant to be.
I’m supposed to be using this hour to relax. Instead, I’m using to pray for death (ok, overly dramatic, but it bloody hurts!) and to write my to do list in my head. There’s a lot of overdue items on that list. know I’m not alone in procrastinating and delaying things that, if they’d been done promptly, would have been fine but have now spiralled into a bit of a drama. However, I do think I’m worse than most. Take for example booking my flights home. I’ve known for months that I need to fly home for a week in October. It’s now August and have I booked? Of course not. Why?
So, here I am, lying naked on Qu’an’s table feeling incredibly sorry for myself and wondering how I can morph the £450.79 left into my bank account into enough for a flight home (hello very disreputable Chinese airline?). And wondering if I’m making a huge mistake I even agreeing to go home in the first place. Should I not just get sozzled at a London pub for my 30th instead?
Nevertheless, by the time Qu’an has unknotted the choked muscles in my back and moved to my limbs I can’t help but fall prey to the lull of a brief nap after all. An hour later I walk out on a cloud. Qu’an is smug. I’m inches taller and resolved to sit straighter at my desk. I am no closer to solving my real problems — but I do have Qu’an’s secret green curry recipe scrawled on the back of my cryptic receipt.