“It is better to be beautiful than to be good, but it is better to be good than to be ugly.”

July 13, 2007 at 9:44 pm (Abandonment issues, Beauty, Humiliation, Pants)

I have just been for a massage, where she broke down, not only my cellulite but my dignity too. It’s quite possibly more terrifying than my first Thai massage which I documented on my Sshhh (just before scary stalker man terrified me enough to wipe it) to refresh, I have transferred it over from my last blog, warts and all.

My first Thai massage was fabulous, I am very clicky clicky but on the plus side my hips feel more evenly balanced than they have in years. My Swedish massage on the other hand was a little more disturbing. I have had massages before in the UK; I am not a complete novice. So when I went in, I had a sauna, a shower and hopped up onto the bed in my pants and lay on my front. I was stroked and squeezed and even a little bit pummeled. At one point I was even pinched but my snort of disgust soon put a stop to that. I turned over, on request and my legs and shoulders and arms were done. Then slightly more unexpectedly, my breasts. Obviously I lay back and thought of England but I was in a state of mortification. This was in a genuine beauty spa; the masseuse had certificates on the wall and everything. I hadn’t accidentally walked into one of *those* massage parlors. It wasn’t erotic (anything that may have hinted otherwise was actually a result of the air con) in the least, just a little disconcerting and certainly quite unexpected. Later that evening I sidled up to one of the other girls I had gone on holiday with and asked her if she’d had the same and you can imagine my relief when she said yes. It’s just a shame the other girl with us hadn’t had her breasts massaged too as she had been in for a stroking session and now wanted to know exactly what was wrong with her breasts and why they didn’t qualify. In all honesty, none of us are small girls and I suspect by the time she got onto the massage table that the poor masseuse was exhausted and simply not longer had the strength or energy left for another pair of English breasts.

So all things considered, I was feeling remarkably blasé about my Slimming Massage + wrapping (cold gel with cupping massage) and hydrating ampoule and strawberry soft mask. The cupping should have given it away. I arrived in eager anticipation, was shown to a room and asked to take everything off. I double checked *everything* meant *everything* and when we confirmed *everything* I stripped off and put a towel round me.

I was quite pleased with the body scrub, which really was a scrub. It’s a bizarre feeling to have two Thais women rub you down with something that feels like sandpaper and even more disconcerting to have them place you in a shower. That was the dignified part. The cupping and the wrap are a little harder to describe. 

After I was showered, I was put into a heat blanket. This is a cross between a sleeping bag and an electric blanket, and it’s heavy, really heavy. I was wrapped up in this, my masseuse popped my iPod into my ears (the headphones obviously, not the whole thing, that would have hurt) and went to attend to the friend who was having the same treatment 15 minutes ahead of me. An hour later, I was still wrapped in the heat blanket. I’d finished this weeks Broadcasting House pod cast. I was also starting to feel a little trapped, when I said the heat blanket was heavy, it was really heavy so heavy in fact that I couldn’t move my arms and it was hot. Hence it being called a heat blanket I suppose.

Around this time, I started to hallucinate, imagining I was lost in a tropical dessert and was sweltering, with no water. Once I got to an hour and a quarter I was sure I had been forgotten about and started mewling. By the time the beautician came back to me I was as weak as a kitten, lying in a puddle of my own sweat and to weak to ask why she had abandoned me (whoops, the abandonment issues are resurfacing).

I was also too weak to stop them, when they took me into another room, lay me down naked and smothered me in something that felt like tiger balm. A first the heat was searing, I asked if it was supposed to feel this way and I was told “yes ma’am” I asked if it was supposed to burn, to be told “yes ma’am” Knowing the SEAsian attitude of agreeing to everything, I asked if my skin was peeling off. Guess what? “Yes ma’am”
Having been smothered in a burning liquid, it suddenly went very cold, like menthol. Apparently this cooling effect burns fatty tissue, while you’re being massaged to break down cellulite.  All the time I was squealing I was being pummeled and smacked. Apparently this is a cupping massage but frankly I think the girls were sick of me making a fuss and were smacking me out of spite.

And did I mention I was still naked?

At this point the head masseuse got out something that looked like a short pneumatic drill, with what looked like a pillow on the end. I had been half expecting this. It had been explained to me at the consultation before, that a pounding vibrator would be used on me (can’t wait to see the stats results *that* little gem pulls up) the pillow was covered in cling film the run up slowly over the back of me legs, my thighs, my bottom, then my back. Then I was flipped over and it stated all over again on the front. By this time the cooling effect was slightly more obvious. I was after all still naked. My finger nails turned blue and I started to shiver and my teeth started to chatter. Having had another good pounding with the vibrator and another smacking from the front, I was stood up, spread eagled (still naked) and wrapped in mud (naked except for the mud). In case any of my dignity was left, I was then wrapped in cling film (naked except for mud and cling film) and put back into the heat blanket.

Having been gently baked for several Woman’s Hour podcasts, (only ten minutes each, not the expected hour you might think Woman’s Hour would be) I was taken and showered off. Knowing this was pretty much the end, I washed and dried and put my knickers back on and waited for the beautician to measure me.

Which she did, to make sure she didn’t accidentally make my hips seem larger than they were, she grabbed both sides of my knickers and pulled them down. Gosh. That 5mm of material might have made a huge difference to the overall stats. At this point I had been beaten, baked, burnt and frozen for five hours, still I lost 5cm around my waist for the mere cost of $80 (around £25) so I would obviously do it again.

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“The art of the police is not to see what it is useless that it should see.”

July 13, 2007 at 1:13 am (Driving, Police)

So last weekend I spent an evening at the border. As designated driver,  I wasn’t drinking.  This has nothing to do with legalities (how can you be done for drink driving in a dry country?) it’s simply that I don’t drink and drive. No lectures (this is a lie, I’ll sound off to anyone who so much looks at lambrini when they have the car) it’s just my choice.

Knowing I was sober,  makes me sure what happened on the way home was both real and surreal.
We pulled up at some traffic lights and the car next to me was a police car. I looked over and caught the eye of the passenger, who smiled. I smiled back, then he waved, so I waved back. The I noticed the driver of the police car was wearing a motorbike helmet. In the car.

I understand I’m a relatively new driver but I’m not so bad that drivers in the surrounding areas need to wear crash helmets.

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Driving round a bend and skidding on a mat of dead toads is very unpleasant for all concerned.”

July 13, 2007 at 1:06 am (Driving, Swifty)

My breaks failed the day before yesterday. I was heading to the Seri complex on a busy, busy, busy dual carriageway and was on the bend round to the right, when the brakes felt, well nothing really. I knew I had put my foot down but as Swifty hadn’t slowed at all I assumed I had touched the accelorator. So in my minort confusion, I touched the accelorator with my foot.

Imagine the scenario, I now still have no brakes but I am going a little bit faster. Thirty seconds later I approached a stopped car at a junction, by this time I’m stamping my foot like a show pony, with no response from the breaks at all. I did try gesticulating madly at the car in front to move but I suspect if he saw, (checking mirrors while driving not being a huge thing here) he merely thought I was disco-ing. (“Mad Western women, always dancing, always provocative”) I didn’t have time to use the gears to slow down but fortunately I managed to use the hand brake to stop before I hit him, .

‘S funny really, normally I just need to look at traffic and I stall, the one time I could have done with stalling and I completely lost the ability.

Swifty is now feeling much better, comparing it to a 24 hopur hour bug and swearing it will never happen again. Hhe’s going in for a check up anyway.

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“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

July 13, 2007 at 12:57 am (Mowgli)

Am not seeing Mowgli anymore. It was nice while it lasted but I never got to see him, he was always at work and when he wasn’t at work, I was on holiday. He’s a lovely boy, pretty, charming and courteous but not for me.To begin with we didn’t really have anything in common. Not even our sense of humour. I am funny goddamn it. I know I’m funny. I have to be funny because I am neither pretty nor clever.

Secondly I couldn’t get my head around dating a jungle warrior who built elaborate forts for a living. He did try to explain to me how hard it was being in the jungle, where you sweated so much that you’re camouflage cream needed to be replaced every 15 mins and I’m not sure he liked me comparing it to a night clubbing in central London.

It’s disappointing for the fact I don’t really like the social scene much here and he was one of the few things I could look forward to. One of the other things that is a bit rubbish is if I’d split up with someone in the UK, I’d have phoned around and we would have got a group of people together and we’d have gone out on the piss. By 8pm we would be discussing going for a civilised meal to discuss the situation and offer appropriate sympathy. By 9pm we would be poo pooing the automatic reminder that appears on all our phones to tell us that quavers are not an appropriate stomach lining for a night of heavy drinking and we’d be picking up strangers from the legion to ballroom dance across the pub with.

I want my break up party. I’ve done the hard graft, now I want my reward.

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