From time to time I enjoy a good pummelling to ease out the spaghetti junction of knots that takes up residence just beneath the skin.
The firmer the better; I can't be doing with those sappy aromatherapy jobs that are somtimes more akin to stroking a large and docile cat. But now and again the masseur ventures somewhere they shouldn't; somewhere quite unexpected – and, frankly, unw
elcome.
Now, before you ask, I'm not referring to Kevin Costner's alleged request for a "sweet" finish while honeymooning in St Andrews back in 2004. That sort of thing is very much frowned upon in the Walker book of etiquette.
But what does one do when, either accidentally or deliberately, a therapist's fingers linger over a part of the body that is only ever exposed to one's nearest and dearest (and, even then, preferably only when the lights are out)? A friend's first experience of such an outrage was while receiving a good, solidly above-board massage at a high-end Edinburgh hotel. "Would you like me to do your breasts too?" asked the masseur, quite matter of factly, as if that was the sort of question one might hear every day, in the deli queue at Tesco perhaps, or waiting for stamps at the post office. She was so taken aback she just squealed, which the masseur took to be an affirmative and went about her business.
It was an odd sensation, she reported to me later, and not one she would be in a hurry to repeat.
To be honest, I rather thought the little attention-seeker was making it all up, since I had never once been asked if I would like my mammaries man-handled (well, not in that way at any rate). But while on a spa break in Italy recently I didn't even get a say in the matter. There I was, almost drifting off into a fragrant Tuscan nirvana, when my non-English-speaking therapist instructed me (in that universal sign language that involved a kind of grunt and a twirl of the fingers) to turn over on to my back, whereupon he proceeded to give my bangers a good going over.
Though we didn't share a common vocabulary, I'm sure a firm, "What do you think you're doing, young man? Unhand me this instant!" would have got the message across. Yet I was inexplicably struck dumb. Where to look? What to do? Why, indeed, even go there in the first place? So I simply shut my eyes and thought of Scotland, where that sort of thing is strictly off the massage menu, thank you very much.
On further investigation, however, it seems I am sadly mistaken. In fact, massaging of the melons is quite the done thing in some quarters. Apparently it can help prevent cancer, speed recovery following surgery, aid lactation and improve the general perkiness of the puppies in question. It's so beneficial that a selfless Chinese gentleman, from a company that goes by the name of Bubby Robot Technologies, has taken it upon himself to invent a robot that will do the job for us. Really. I'm not making this up. His name? Wang Wei. Which, I think you'll find, is my point precisely.
