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Edna discovers Nutshore’s Spa

 

Edna discovers Nutshore’s Spa

Dear Editor,
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 new woman!
Blessings and praise the Lord!
Edna Gosling (Mrs).