Remember falling over as a child the first thing we did was rub the area affected, our mothers told us that we could kiss pains, aches and cuts better…and of course, everything felt so much better when it was touched, stroked and soothed. Little wonder that massage is the most important and most frequently booked treatment at spas throughout the world. We all need to be touched.
I am sure that one of the reasons for the extraordinary growth in the number of spas over the last few decades, is because so many of us live alone – by choice or through bereavement or divorce., and consequently don’t have the opportunity to touch and be touched. Visit a spa and you can enjoy the power of touch to your heart’s content – massage, wraps, manicures, facials a spa provides the lot and all are therapeutic.
Which is why the only thing that really matters at any spa…is the person who touches your body, your therapist. Of course beautiful decor, luxury beds, gowns and towels, sweet scents, low lights, gentle sounds and delicious smells all help to make a great experience, but at the end of the day, the only one of our senses that is truly important is that of touch.
Oh dear, the health police are at it again…this time the war is on breakfast. It is no longer deemed good for you…no more should we go to work on an egg, not even the pallid poached version atop some smashed avocado…oh dear no. Unless of course you’re a child at school where it is essential for your physical and mental wellbeing.
Well, I don’t care. I love breakfast. I am particularly keen on porridge (or should that be porage) especially when served with brown sugar and cream, although most days I’ll make do with yogurt. I also love a good bircher-muesli when aligned with a berry compote, but mostly I love the full Monty…a proper fry-up with bacon, sausage, eggs, beans, black pudding and if I can ever get it, cholesterol seducing fried bread. It is one of my favourite meals and I would eat it every day if I had either the time or the appetite…but mostly I don’t, and it has to wait its turn until I am on holiday and can get somebody else to cook it for me.
Although I must admit I did once, while going on holiday, eat three breakfasts in fourteen hours. But that was due to special circumstances – a monstrous hold-up at Gatwick airport with planes delayed one after the other. In those days the culinary offerings at the airport were limited…and the only acceptable food (to me anyway) was the good old British breakfast. Which is why I won’t allow the foodie fascists destroy one meal that gives so much pleasure to so many…including me. Make it two eggs – sunny side up.