Today I should have been having a Spa Day with my sister-in-law.
Or more accurately, I should have been having a Spa Day with my ex sister-in-law.
We get on well, and after my husband left we decided we wanted to continue to get on well – thus proving that you can, in fact, choose your relatives. It’s a funny old world.
Anyway, for my 60th birthday she’d booked us a Spa Day.
We were going to go to Le Petit Spa. It was going to be lovely. And it was going to be today.
I was going to have a foot pampering session. She was going to have a facial. We had it all planned, right down to how long it was going to take to get there, what time we would have to set off, and where we would park.
We were going to relax and let the cares of the world disappear in an atmosphere of scented oils, soft lighting, herbal tea, girl talk and (possibly) Prosecco.
Ah well. It’s the thought that counts.
We realised, as soon as this Lockdown was announced, that it wasn’t going to happen. When the Spa contacted her to cancel, it was no great surprise. A shame, but not surprising. It’s been added to the ever-growing list of things that haven’t happened.
We’ll try again when lockdown is over and we’re allowed to do that sort of thing again.
But it’s hard, isn’t it. All the niceness has gone – lovely indulgent things like spa days, meals out, theatre trips, holidays; but also ordinary day-to-day pleasantness like giving someone a lift, a handshake, a hug.
God I miss hugs.
Today, instead of our Spa trip, I’m going to have a pampering session at home. A nice long hot bath, lotions and potions and nails and feet and hair. I’ll drink herbal tea in my dressing gown, turn the lights down low. There may be candles. I’ll try to relax.
We will have our Spa day, and we will enjoy it. It’s not cancelled, just delayed.
But I’m so sad that it’s not today.
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