I spent a most enjoyable day among the rubbish of the Home Counties yesterday, but I'm going to talk about that tomorrow. What I'd like to tell you about today is the relaxing evening Mrs S and I spent at a posh spa after my day in the rubbish.
I was late. Not through any fault of my own, as I am a stickler for punctuality, but mainly because of the following:
The silver Corsa, who decided that it was a grand idea to break down on a major roundabout
The horsebox, which shot out of a side road on two wheels, and then crawled along the main road
The Volvo driver, who thought it was a kind gesture to let everyone through, even though he had right of way and despite being honked by the three cars behind (I wasn't one of them, can I say...)
My friends, who kept calling me, interrupting my satnav and her instructions
It was dark, wet and foggy
So having eventually turned up, I then did two laps of the building looking for the front door. I was on the point of giving up and going home, when a brightly lit door appeared. Running in, I plonked myself in front of the receptionist who kitted me out with a robe. He was a tad annoyed with me, as I'd come in the Member's Entrance (his words, not mine), and insisted that I would have to leave the same way to settle any outstanding bill. This wasn't a problem, but what I hadn't realised is that because I had come in the wrong side, nothing was where I remembered it from my last visit (this was eighteen months ago, before you accuse me of 'living the life').
It took another ten minutes to find my beautiful friend, who very thoughtfully had positioned herself in a lounger around the pool with her back to me, so I couldn't see her. This was my cue for another two laps of the building, taking in a café and three further pools. I eventually found her (by this time, my stress levels were moving on to sky high) and we had two relaxing hours in the pool and in the café, followed by a lovely pedicure.
It was then time to leave. Walking back into the changing room with her, I looked at my locker key number. 476. This changing room's lockers only went up to 200, so we had to part company there, while I roamed around the building looking for my clothes. Another fifteen minutes, and finally I found the right changing room, having wandered around two incorrect ones (I have to confess, one of these was circumnavigated twice). This was after accosting various people in waffle dressing gowns, waving my key under their nose, and asking if they could help me. I don't think I've ever been so pleased to see my jeans.
Getting back into the car, I fire up the satnav, and headed back home. It was now 10.00, so I anticipated getting home around 10.30, just in time to see the husband. What I didn't count on was Mrs S, calling me five minutes into my journey to say she was almost home, thus interrupting the stupid satnav lady once again. Telling her to get off the phone as I was lost on a mahoosive roundabout, I naturally took the wrong turning, veering towards the only town name I recognised on the road sign.
And this explains why, an hour later, I finally got home, any relaxation launched out of my side window, somewhere on the hard shoulder of the M4.
But at least my toes looked pretty...