Pleasurable pain

You’ll be relieved to hear that I have finally found a decent masseur.

Have I mentioned my bad back? I keep forgetting to tell people.

You know it’s a really good massage when you start fretting about it ending. When the thought of them stopping is so unbearable, you feel an uncontrollable urge to say “Look at my watch! You like it? I’ll give it to you, if you do another ten minutes”.

It seems that the only people who can manipulate my body effectively are men. I regularly take my clothes off for my osteo, and now I might be forming a new massage habit. Though I might have to develop a reverse bank fraud habit to fund it.

As I was face down earlier, I found myself wondering about said masseur’s girlfriend. Or partner. Or flatmates. How handy would it be to have someone at the other end of the sofa to unadhere you during Veep.

And when he did this thing to my neck at the end, I thought perhaps I ought to double-check the rules on bigamy in the borough of Ealing.

Some of it was quite hurty, but in a good way. Oh dear, this is getting awfully 50 Shades. But it was as if he somehow knew exactly where to [insert non-shady verb] his thumbs.

Actually, ‘somehow’ is bollocks. If you’re good at your job, you should know about muscle maps. I qualified as a massage therapist yonks ago, though I never did anything with it. It was when I was coming out of an epic depression, and needed a no pressure (no pun) way to occupy myself.

I thought it might be useful in the bedroom department if I ever snagged a boyfriend again, but it’s never really been in my repertoire cos it’s too hard work. The only man I’ve ever massaged is my Dad, for my coursework, and that was pretty weird.

Let’s rapidly move on to something more wholesome. Logie is doing the Big Toddle today. It’s a charity walk for pre-schoolers. The nursery is dressing them as superheroes. Gorgeous.

However, we were meant to gather sponsorship for them. I find this a bit of a moral maze. On the one hand, we’re all fed up with endless requests from schoolchildren and midlife-crisisers who have got into triathlons.

But sponsoring a one-year-old? He doesn’t understand what it’s for, it won’t teach him to strive or bask in our pride. We could just chuck in £25 ourselves.

On the other hand, the competitive part of me doesn’t want him to be the only one without several names on his form (which we’ve lost). And I know the photos will be supercute. Cleverly, nursery won’t be collecting any guilt money for a few weeks.

Perhaps I could hit up godparents and neighbours, and then do a Barclays on his sponsorship fund, creaming a bit off to pay for another massage.