Treading a Fine Line

Just arrived back from Stobo Castle health spa, where my mother took me as a graduation present. It was possibly the best place I've ever been, ever. But it was also really weird. I didn't realise how thin the line between pampering and fetish is until this week. Something about being scrubbed with flannels, almost to the point of pain, slathered in mud and wrapped in plastic makes you consider these things. Having said that, while lying, encased in cling film and covered with roughly seventy three towels, I was less considering the significance of this boundary and more trying to bend time with my mind so that I could stay there a little longer. Before my back massage, I spent a few minutes worrying about the implications of paying someone to touch me, but those thoughts vanished moments later and I was suddenly considering asking the masseuse to be my wife. At one point, my mum and I got drunk and I painted a plate. I have to say, I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but I don't think it'll arrive at our door next week, glazed and fired, emblazoned with a scrawled design of crudely drawn penises and "Beth rulez!!". Hopefully.