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Edna discovers Nutshore’s Spa
Edna discovers Nutshore’s Spa
I write to advise your readers of the near miraculous effects of aroma
therapy massage. I am a recent convert to this wonderful practice, but I am
absolutely cock-a-hoop in my enthusiasm for it. Actually, it’s funny how it
all came about. I was peering through the bedroom window of my neighbour, Mr
Arnold Snout, who I had not seen for a few days and was very concerned
about. I have long deemed it my Christian duty to take an interest in single
men of a certain age. It’s the caring urge in me, I suppose. I always sense
that they are in need of a helping hand. Even if they don’t realise it.
Anyway, I spied on Mr Snout who was crouching down behind his bed whispering
into a mobile phone and I heard him complaining of something that sounded
like ‘a pain in the neck’. I was just about to wrap on the window pane and
ask if there was anything I could do to help, when the rickety rattan stool
I was standing on gave way and I ended up with one foot through the mesh. As
no one came to heed my cries of agony, except two stray dogs and a small
gecko, I hobbled home as best I could. I spent the rest of the day nursing
my sprained tendons and wondering how I could make it to Tops on my bicycle
to buy the following day’s essentials, when, as though as an answer to
prayer, Sister Mary Garson popped in. She takes a great interest in my
teenage daughter Tabatha, who’s been a bit miserable lately on account of
her chastity appliance rubbing and making her sore. Sister Mary had very
kindly brought a special liniment to rub in.
Well, on seeing my sorry state she promptly called for a taxi, assuring me
she would baby-sit for my little puss, and rushed me off to the Five
Elephant’s Spa, which is run by her friend, Mirtle Nutshore. Your readers
may know of her. She’s a slight woman with a pronounced stoop, a spinster of
the parish who does a nice line in home produced herbal teas which she sells
at the Sunday Walking Street. Miss Nutshore asked me if I would mind if she
put me in the very capable hands of a young man called Mr Ong, as all her
female therapists were fully engaged on account of the unexpected arrival of
a tour party of Japanese golfers. I was doubtful at first about the
propriety of being left alone in a room with a youth of the male persuasion
with nothing but a spa towel to defend my virtue, but I need not have
worried. Mr Ong was the epitome of professionalism. He told me he was taught
by monks at Wat Po, so that immediately put my mind at rest. With averted
eyes, he delicately adjusted my skimpy covering to protect my modesty and
went about his work with a deft touch and admirable skill and dexterity.
It’s actually been so long since I have been touched by a man that I must
say I came over all emotional. Not since the Reverend Donald swept me off my
feet on the night of our honeymoon in Skegness have I felt so wonderfully
appreciated and invigorated. If any of your readers, particularly of the
female gender, have yet to sample the delights of a pair of highly trained
oily hands caressing their calves and thighs and even parts of their bodies
that they may not even like, then let me urge them to indulge themselves in
this completely revitalizing and absolutely wholesome experience. I have
been back to Mr Ong every day this week and let me tell you, I feel like a
Blessings and praise the Lord!
Edna Gosling (Mrs).
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