I don’t normally accept free things to write about on the blog, but when lovely Living Social offered me a spa day, I was never going to say no.
I thanked them profusely, made a mental note next to the date in my brain… and forgot about it.
Suddenly, it was spa day. I didn’t have anything that felt posh enough to wear to the hotel. I had to dig out the iron. It’s been stowed away at the back of the kitchen cupboard since I tried to iron Tom’s polo short for school last September. I only left it on the arm of the sofa for a second while it warmed up and I got Tom’s toast out of the toaster and it burnt a big hole in it. That sofa has been in the family longer than me. I tried carrying on ironing the shirt after that, but the hard clumps of seventies fabric that were melded to the iron transferred on to the white shirt, leaving a brown crust.
I digress, anyway. Sunday’s ironing disaster was different. I used the kitchen sideboard this time, but the wire of the iron got caught on a bottle of rum, which clattered to the floor. The dress and the kitchen floor were covered in rum and broken glass. I was late. I’m never ironing again. I had to put on a clean, creased dress. My printer broke, I couldn’t get my spa day voucher to print out. When I was on my hands and knees under the table looking for the right printer wire, I noticed a pile of shrivelled baked beans from Tom’s lunch the previous day.
It was only when I made it out of the front door and into the calm of the outside world that I began to think about what the spa day might actually entail. As it happened, it was just what I needed. I had my nails filed and painted, a bloody good back massage (“Gosh, your shoulders are tight,” said the therapist,) a glass of champagne and a two hour swim. I didn’t have to rush home because Tom was at his Nan’s. I swam up and down for ages, pretending I was on holiday in the sea, forgetting about real life. When I got out, my fingertips were wrinkled, which made me think of the baked beans under the table at home, which made my heart sink.
I walked straight through the front door, cleaned up the beans then put on the Marigolds and sorted out the rum and the glass. As well as brilliant beauty deals, I’ve also spied professional cleaning on the list of daily offers from Living Social. I could do with one of those next. It’s definitely worth signing up to them, I’m not just saying it.
In other news, I couldn’t manage without my Mum, who shook her head as she bundled up Tom’s school polo shirts at the end of term.
“They’re grey!” she said, “I wish you would wash light and dark things separately.”
She returned them to me this week, not only ironed but bleached. They’re gleaming.
“Sometimes my Nan has to help my Mum do the washing and ironing,” Tom explained to his Uncle, “She isn’t really old enough to do it herself.”
We’re off to Just So Festival tomorrow. Tom is very excited. I am intrigued.
After that, we’re going to the countryside and I am going to work on the book. My laptop has broken so I am taking this vintage iBook which doesn’t even go on the internet and shouts at you when there’s an error. Yes, that’s a pile of washing in the background. Clean but definitely not ironed.