Tuesday, 7 August 2012

Here's mud in your arse

“Could you put the mud on my arse?” says my sister-in-law. I hope she won’t mind me telling you, she’s a very assertive woman (see previous blog). When the beautician asked if we’d ever had this sort of treatment before, I replied a meek little ‘no’ as she simultaneously announced that she had, in California, where she hadn’t had to apply the mud herself, thank you very much. Maybe this was why she was getting me to do it?

So it wasn’t until I was obediently applying the aforementioned to her buttocks that I paused to wonder. After all, you can reach your own arse. At least, most people can, including my sister-in-law. She’s perfectly able bodied. As I could very well see for myself.

You see we'd abandoned the paper pants we were offered because they were huge, I could fit two legs in one hole, and we could hardly wear our lovely swimming costumes, the mud would ruin them, so baring all really was the only solution. It was only the two of us in there.

It was meant to be relaxing, three hours at Center Parcs Spa, but was already shaping up to be a stressful afternoon before I was confronted with my relative’s bum cheeks. There were eggs missing from the kitchen, five, to be precise and I couldn’t work out where they’d gone. It wasn’t until Eldest hit Middle One in the nuts during an argument that all was revealed (it was a revealing afternoon). Middle One, in his rage and indignation, dobbed his brother in it and told me he’d been stealing the eggs and throwing them at trees to pass the time. A new Olympic sport, you might say. I was furious. Incandescent. Very cross. 

This is me: Not the sort of behaviour you expect from a sixteen year-old/a six year-old maybe/a delinquent six year-old/a delinquent six year-old with ADHD perhaps/what do you have to say for yourself? 

This is him: Sorry/sorry/sorry/ sorry/I was bored/I wasn’t thinking/sorry/sorry.

So, off I went to the Spa in a rage, hoping I might be able to bagsie one of those lovely warm waterbeds where I could relax and calm down but spending the entire time (after the mud) wandering from one steam room to another composing a text in my head to Eldest instead, something along the lines: I am very disappointed, you had jolly well better buck your ideas up young man… but less naff. Finally I found a free tepid waterbed and lay on it just as a queue of people arrived waiting to snatch it from me. 

Never mind, I thought to myself, keeping eyes firmly shut, the best thing would probably be to send a kinder text to Eldest, something more understanding... And then I tried to relax, as visions of eggs and buttocks and mud and text messages floated past my inward eye. 

Then my time was up.

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