No-one should have to compile such a list, but sadly, I do. It just so happens I have extremely ticklish feet. (Please see http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2007/04/international-relations.html for more information.) I am now sensible enough to avoid pedicures, but this one snuck up on me.
It was our first full day in Turkey. Mr and Mrs Nunn and TheBloke (TM) and myself were all chilling out around the pool, marvelling at the sunny sunshine and the mountainy mountains. All was excellent.
"Shall we go for a Turkish bath?" I pondered aloud to Mrs Nunn. She thought this would be a very good idea (£20 for an hour and a half's exfoliation and massage can't be bad), and so off we trundled.
And my, it was pleasant. We were ushered into a heated marble palace and instructed to relax. As we relaxed, warm water was poured over us. We were then exfoliated within an inch of our lives. Well, within an inch of Mrs Nunn's life, and within 2.2 centimetres of my life. My generation prefers the metric system.
Next came the covering with soapy bubbles from a bizarre pillowcase bubble maker. It's hard to explain. Here is a picture.
Please note that this is neither Mrs Nunn nor myself. Neither of us current resembles a fat, bald, middle-aged man. Yet. The masseur is holding something that looks like a bedsheet, but is actually a pillow case with holes in that creates the suds. Lovely.
Anyway, I digress. It was time for the massage. And, inevitably, the lady touched my feet. I flinched, giggled and got away with it. She then started working on my shoulders. I relaxed. She then did a sneak attack on my left foot. And that, dear Plogger, is when I kicked a Turkish woman in the head.
Even bearing this head-kicking in mind, the experience was still less embarrassing than my Hong Kong massage experience. Which I don't want to talk about.
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